Suburban Wino

An Awkward Gentleman's Guide to February 14th

2012-02-14T02:03:00.000-05:00

Like a sacrificial human heart from a Temple of Doom victim's body cavity, I, too, am torn.

With February 14th- Valentine's Day- upon us, what measure of tight science could I serve up to my bros on the blog? And why did I just say "bros"?

Admittedly, I have some chops in the wine-knowledge department. I can cook my way around the kitchen, I suppose. And, I make a mean chocolate monkey. If I really, REALLY, applied myself, I imagine a list of smooth things to say, cool wines to order, foods that make women happy, and slick moves at the restaurant could materialize that would help a single cat or kitty woo the filly or beefcake he's/she's after.

But rather than searching for needles of suavity in a haystack of ineptitude with the opposite sex, why don't we focus on the haystack. Because I've pulled a hell of a lot more disaster-y than mastery in the arena of love. So, grab your pitchfork and listen up if you don't want to definitely not get lucky today:

Gifts to Avoid:

- Carob
- Lane Bryant gift card
- Rogaine for Her
- 5 lbs. of Veal

Commenting on her appearance:

- "You're hotter than any of the moms on Toddlers & Tiaras."
- "Someone's looking sensible tonight!"
- "Meow! Move over, Greta Van Susteren."

At Dinner:

- "Say you're my daughter... the kid's meal is free."
- "If we eat enough of the bottomless salad bowl and breadsticks, we can split a meal."
- "The lady will have the Grand Slam Breakfast, please."
- "Do you want the chicken, or the beef Mexi-melt?"

In the Boudoir:

- "Errrrr... Mexi-melts."
- "Let's make eight babies!"
- "Are you familiar with micro-phallus?"
- "I have night terrors, but not always."
- "'No' really means 'yes', right?"
- Screaming "IT'S A BOY!"

LINGO: A Perversion to Wine Descriptors

2012-02-08T01:15:00.001-05:00

Ever heard an 'aficionado' pontificate- perhaps endlessly- with a litany of descriptors that either no human has actually experienced, or, don't even exist?

"This wine is redolent of kaffir lime blossom, truffled walnut oil, pit of under-overripe white peach, sassafras bark, Cambodian breast milk, and Keebler Pizzarias..."

It's ridiculous! I mean, Keebler Pizzarias have been off the market for decades. How are we supposed to remember their authentic pizzeria aromas and flavors, all baked- not fried- into a delicious, crispy chip?

Oh, I have a tough time with this argument. Indeed, there are chemical compounds that exist in wine grapes and are created through the fermentation and aging processes that exist in nature: fruits, vegetables, organic matter, etc. And, understanding the signature aromas of certain wines can help us all identify them better, thus improving our familiarity with them, and ultimately garnering greater appreciation for said wines. A frame-of-reference is important, but it can quickly become a point of confusion.

Yes, there are incredibly astute tasters who smell the difference in yellow peach and white peach. They pick out Chenin Blanc from the Loire in blind tastings because of a distinct nose of walnut oil. For these cats, a need for extreme specificity exists.

However, for the average Joe Six-pack who wants to learn about wine, overly-esoteric descriptors can come across as less "helpful" and more "off-putting and confusing". Thus, there exists a significant need to keep it simple when educating. Saying wines smell of citrus or red berries or tropical fruits can help frame the aromas in a broad- and familiar- manner. Then, any wine drinker who picks up on these general olfactory profiles can increase his/her enjoyment of the wine. Indeed, successfully identification of a telltale aroma is... fun.

Of course, in the current profession, I come across this issue quite a bit. When training a wait staff at a restaurant about my wines, I try to keep it very high-level. It will behoove neither the waiter nor the customer to speak in confusing and unfamiliar aromas. Unless, of course, there is a sporting motive.

With that said, I admit that it is fun to slip one in here and there. But "tangelo leaf" and "fuji apple" and "white truffles" are all played-out. Hackneyed fodder of the wine media.

So I present... L-I-N-G-O! America's first- and finest- wacky wine descriptor challenge.

I guarantee that none of the descriptor in "L-I-N-G-O" have hit a tasting sheet. I hope to see this game posted in restaurants across America. The first server to successfully use enough descriptors throughout the night to earn "L-I-N-G-O", without question from the buyer, wins a prize.

Sounds simple, right? Well, that remains to be seen. I challenge you to describe a wine as being "funkier than Bootsie Collins, with powerful aromas of Skin Bracer and Tacos" without a pause or a raised eyebrow.

Let the games begin...

A Modest Proposal

2012-02-02T08:59:00.002-05:00

"This is pitiful. A thousand people freezing their butts off waiting to worship a rat. What a hype. Groundhog Day used to mean something in this town. They used to pull the hog out, and they used to eat it."

-Phil Conners, Meteorologist, WPBH-TV9, Pittsburgh

The groundhog (marmota momax, of the Rodent family) is a large, burrowing, ground-squirrel common to the American Midwest and Northeast. These meaty cousins of the common squirrel and marmot are quite widespread, reproduce like baby-boomers, and are very rotund, thus, likely slow.

So why aren't Americans eating more groundhog? I blame the supermarkets. Pre-packaged meat has led far-too-many to believe that pork chops grow on trees, and chicken breasts sprout out of the ground. Understanding where one's food comes from is an important lesson to the advancement of our culinary culture. To that end, knowing where the groundhog comes from- the same family as squirrels- can offer much insight into the deliciousness that could ensue when Americans get their gastronomic s**t together.

Take- for example- some excerpts from "Bayou Bill" Scifres' website, "All Outdoors" (www.bayoubill.com), talking about the preparation of squirrel. If this doesn't get your tummy rumbling, then you belong to a styrofoam tray of uniform cutlets:

- "I have bagged squirrels early in the morning on many occasions and kept them unskinned until dark on hot August days of the past without ever having a squirrel turn bad. It also is a good idea to keep flies off the squirrels."

- "it is not difficult to skin a squirrel after rigor mortis has set in."

- "I know, the notion that squirrel heads should be saved for cooking may bring about some cases of the "jeebies." But there is a lot of good meat on the cheeks and the part of the head that joins the neck, not to mention a great little morsel of brain when the top of the head is cracked (usually with the handle of a table knife) after the meat is removed."

- "Most wild game eaters consider the back legs of the squirrel "top choice," but I do not look down my nose at any piece of squirrel including heads."

- "Fried squirrel is a favored method with most wild game cooks, but they may be boiled (especially the older, tougher ones) and turned into a magnificent pot of dumplings. Then, of course, I do not have many guests leave the table when I present a platter of whole, baked squirrels with body cavities stuffed with my sage dressing."

- "To be honest about this entire thing, I have never seen a squirrel dish I did not like."

Thank you, Bayou Bill. I think you've made my point. Only substitute "groundhog" for "squirrel", and replace "meaty and delicious" with "meatier and delicious-er".

Quit worrying about whether or not that groundhog is going to see its shadow, and get that whistle-pig wondering if he'll see your shadow... right before you bag 'im.

Considering the wild nature of the critter, find a wine that has complementing "gamey" aromas and flavors, like Rhône Syrah, Pinotage from South Africa, or a Chilean Carménère. Or, if you go the fried route, few wines stand up to richness like Rieslings.

Of course, Champagne goes great with most any food. And few things class up the table better than a bottle of bubbly and a platter of fried groundhog heads. There's good meat in the cheeks, you know.

#Hashtag Hell, Wine Heaven, and some History: it's #PortDay!

2012-01-26T23:44:00.002-05:00

I really appreciate everyone who follows me on twitter. They are people of substance and good humor. Either that, or spamming porn stars. Sometimes, they're both. Nothing quite like a spamming porn star with a heart of gold. I think that was an made-for-TV special once.

My twitter followers have stuck with me through tweets like, "based on the view from a plane, there ain't shit going on in central Nevada." and "is there underwear for people with tails?"

But when a Twitter wine tasting comes along, I don't harbor ill-will if someone wants to unfollow for a bit. Because it's gonna be a flurry of #Somewineormarketingmessageadnauseam.

Today is Global #PortDay, and twitter geeks (present company included) will be proclaiming the virtues of Portugal's legendary fortified wine, Port (named for the city of Oporto in Portugal, so if it's "Port" that ain't for Portugal, it ain't really Port. It's just like the "Champagne" thing that gets my underoos in a wad).

Port is most often made from a variety of red grapes, sometimes dozens, but the most notable are Touriga Nacional, Touriga Franca, Tinta Roriz (aka "Tempranillo" in Spain), Tinta Cão, and Tinta Barroca. The fermenting wine is "fortified" with neutral brandy spirits to stop fermentation, maintaining sweetness while running the alcohol by volume to around 20%. This was originally done so the wines would be preserved enough to withstand the rigors of boat travel, as Port was extraordinarily popular with the British during Imperial times (in fact, much of the industry was controlled by the Brits). Now, the fortifying is done because when you want something that is sweet that will get you messed up, Port is WAY better than Southern Comfort.

I hope to crack a bottle of Kopke 1987 Colheita for #PortDay. I gave this to my wife for Christmas. And aren't those the best gifts? Ones that two people- madly in love- can share? What better present is there than shared experiences with your life partner? I have a feeling she's really going to love her new Julio Jones jersey (size Men's XL) and Futurama box set I'm getting her for her birthday.

Anyway, a "Colheita" is a single-vintage tawny Port, meaning it was made in the style of all the 10-year, 20-year, 40-year, etc. Ports (which are blends of several years of wine, aged for very long times in oak barrels), but all the grapes in this one were harvested in 1987. Made me think: what else was going on in 1987?

[dream sequence]

In the Year 1987:

A gallon of gas was $0.95. Hamsters driving dinky cars used to get beaten up in 1987. It was a tougher time. And there was no "Party Rock Anthem" for their dancing pleasure. Most likely, hamsters in dinky cars were flash-mobbing to Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine.
Speaking of music, the Billboard top hit of 1987 was George Michael's "Faith". I'm more of a "Careless Whisper" guy myself, but smoky saxophone garners more appreciation now than it did in 1987.
Broadcast News won big picture. Big friggin' deal. Most memorable moment of the 1987 Oscars was the tearjerking presentation to Rick Baker for "Best Makeup" in Harry and the Hendersons (one of the few movies where John Lithgow is not typecast as sinister).

The average cost of a new home was $127,000. At least some things stay the same. Oh, except for that huge housing cost bubble in the mid-2000's when I bought mine.
In a nail-biter, the Kingpins beat out the Zippers for "best vocal group" on Star Search '87.
Of course you already know this: the incomparable Jackée Harry won the Emmy for Best Support Actress Role in a Comedy Series for 227.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're some damn good grapes.

The Middle School Dance, Revisited

2012-01-13T03:18:00.004-05:00

photo courtesy: someecards.com

I knew cold-calling was going to be the price of admission. What I didn't realize is that it is EXACTLY like trying to ask out a date to the 7th grade sock-hop. And my proclivities in that arena were on par with screen doors on submarines, Crystal Pepsi, and Creed. That is to say, abysmal failures (or at least embarrassments, in the latter case).

This was the first day I struck out into the meat grinder of wine sales. Popped into 12 places, awkwardly (a word white people use for every situation) announcing that I wanted to sell commodity alcohol to said places.

Sure, I know it's the lunch rush. And I know another distributor just fast-talked you into a 10-case order of Crazy Bear Charbonnonay. And I understand you just spent 20 minutes talking with the hipster chick in the stupid hat about your cheese order. But, screw them. Take your endless walls of wine, your established relationships, and your $20/each printed-on-real-papyrus wine lists and throw them in the f**king trash! Why? So you can buy wine from me!

It's not a position of comfort for me. Wine is- essentially- a commodity product to many. For most consumers, wine is the Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay that washes away the hopeless ennui of suburban life. Nothing more. So, trying to put one's freshest-face forward to convince surly shop owners and (understandably) annoyed restaurant managers to drop the stuff with the heavy marketing behind it to carry small-production wines from unknown producers is tough sleddin'.

But, so far, it's not all bad. There are folks out there who really care about the wine. They are evangelists, and they are buying what I'm selling. And, damn, that makes it fun...

...like finding that girl who appreciates sweat pants and a knowledge of Legos. Hope springs eternal, and it better, because the cold-calling begins at the crack of noon.

Ch-Changes.

2012-01-04T23:04:00.000-05:00

I meant to wish Happy New Year and write a post about what bubbly to pop when ringing in 2012, but I decided to retire it to the boneyard with dozens of unwritten pontifications about what to pair with Thanksgiving dinner, how to get laid on Valentine's Day using wine + chocolate, and why pounding a case of Lodi Zinfandel with your hot dogs on the 4th of July is the "American" thing to do.

I had much more pressing things on my mind.

From a career standpoint, I'd come to a crossroads: continue to pickle myself with the reliably-consistent whiskey of HVAC Wholesale Marketing (becoming perhaps a mutant Keith Richards-meets-Dave Lennox), or take the ill-advised plunge into the unknown world of wine sales. On the surface, wine sales lured me in with its promise of drinking fabulously-expensive têtes de cuvée in an orgy-like fashion with young Tina Turners and David Bowies. However, knowing so many in the industry, I understand the business is rough, and can leave scars and disorders for life... like wine orgies with rock stars.

However, I could no longer stand to stay idle. Perhaps leaving good pay, benefits, security, and consistency to try my hand at the wine game measures up with some of the worst career moves in history. David Bowie did Labyrinth. Joe becomes a wine 'ho'. Meh... I could've done worse.

I had a lot of people I respect tell me to go for it. I had many others I also respect warn against it. Sometimes, taking the risk is better than wondering "what if" every day. I just couldn't say "what if" anymore.

So, as I try to bust my butt to help get Global Wines Georgia established in the Atlanta market, I hope to somehow manage to keep the blawg around. It will not become a sounding board for events I'm hosting. It will also not serve as a shelf-talker for the wines I'm pimping. Ultimately, writing about wine was my first love associated with the beverage, so I'll try to weasel my way into the enviable niche of industry bloggers like two of my favorites: Samantha Dugan and Nick Musial (the former a retailer/writer extraordinaire, the latter, a dastardly distributin' cuss like me, who just wrote a brilliant friggin' piece about the biz).

Whatever happens, I appreciate all of you who have stopped by here over the past few years. I'll keep you posted, whether I make out with young Tina Turner or not.

As Always, Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T20:58:00.002-05:00

Wishing you a few days of rest, relaxation, gorging, and copious cups of wine!

I toast you all with re-enactment gold...

Conquering the Sea Monster (Fighting the Sea Monster, Round 3)

2011-12-18T20:32:00.000-05:00

It has become a bit of an obsession. I just want to get a dang octopus tenderized.

Round one involved a 45 minute simmer, followed by a quick marinade, then a toss on the grill. The result? One chewy cephalopod.

Round two found our 8-legged meal braised in olive oil and vinegar for over an hour, then another skid across a hot grill grate. If not for a hunger brought about by consumption, it would've remained untouched. Even rubbery than the first attempt.

As I lay in my kitchen- a dejected, pummeled pile of inadequate cooking technique- the invitation upon the refrigerator gave a glimmer of hope. Every year, we get together with a few folks in December and celebrate the food and drink of a particular country. Upon the invitation, scrawled in what appeared to be octopus tentacles, I read, "Spain". Indeed, the Spanish consume their share of this potentially tasty critter, and a particular preparation- Pulpo a la Gallega- is said to be tender and delicious.

Tender and delicious. Blinded by the suspect wiles of the internet, and its sultry promises of edible- nay- scrumptious sea creatures, I- yet again- lined the pockets of the local octopus tycoons. Relaxing, no doubt, in the spoils of their octopus fortunes.

Pulpo (which is Spanish for "octopus") a la Gallega is essentially a preparation of boiling the creature until tender in a pot of water (I added some onions and a little garlic and vinegar). The addition of a copper penny is said to help replicate the authentic technique of boiling in a copper pot. Also, I added a wine cork to the boil. Tradition says it ensures a tender 'pus. Conventional wisdom says it just floats on top and looks stupid and irresponsible.

Once boiled, the octopus is sliced thinly along with sliced potatoes, and the whole mess is drizzled with olive oil and paprika. Not surprising, as olive oil and paprika seem to be Spain's version of Ranch Dressing.

With no room for error (I had already convinced a few timid eaters that they would love food with tentacles), I employed a couple techniques seen at various corners of the interweb:

1) When I got home with my raw quarry, I threw them in the freezer overnight. Then, I let them thaw in the fridge for a day. I'm guessing the freezing creates ice crystals, and the expanding ice disrupts the cell walls in the meat. By the time the 'pus is thawed, it's all jacked up in the "structural integrity" department.

2) I made sure to boil for over an hour. After boning up on some light reading about thermal denaturing of proteins in squid, I figured out that the secret to cooking squid and octopus is a "bookend" approach. That is to say, either cook very quickly or very long. One can either cook so quickly that the protein strands remain intact, or so long that they completely unravel. Anywhere in between, and the proteins constrict together, forming a tough, rubbery texture. And, outside of an awesome name for an album, "Tough, Rubbery Texture" has little appeal.

As knife hit tentacle, I knew that nerdy food science had paved the way for sexy food making. The octopus was tender, and the monkey was off my back.

Granted, I still screwed it up a bit. Wanting a hot preparation, I chose instead to cut up the octopus and potatoes, then quick-fry them in olive oil, with the addition of salt and paprika. Not enough oil, and too much paprika. All the paprika caked on the meat, and it became a bit of a soggy mess. That said, the critter was tender, and I could put this one to rest.

Tip (guess I'm giving "tips" now): when cooking something from a certain region, seek out wines from the same area. As this is pulpo a la Gallega, it hails from the coastal region of Galacia in northwestern Spain. There, the white wines of the Rias Baixas rule, and ones made from the white grape Albariño can make you freak out. Maybe it's the proximity to the ocean, but these wines can taste almost salty (in my opionion, a simpler way of describing what some wine jerk means when he says a wine is "minerally"). They are rich and aromatic, but clean enough for seafood. I snagged this one from Mac's in Midtown, and it was phat, if I may pull that term out of massive obscurity:

Simmering Down

2011-12-11T21:42:00.001-05:00

Had a bit of a whiny rant go down late last week that came off (to me) as unappreciative.

Spent the entire weekend basking in the glory of lots of good wine, great friends, and amazing food. Put in perspective how the wine world has so positively affected my life. A really useful lesson in focusing one what is important. Indeed, the "business" side of wine and marketing can draw us away from it's ultimate goal: enjoyment. From Friday night through today, that goal was achieved.

Oh, and another milestone this weekend: I finally got a damn octopus to be tender. More on that later, as the epic saga between me and the octopodes continues...

Suburban Wino Headquarters: Wine Sample Black Hole

2011-12-09T01:33:00.000-05:00

Are we talking a matter of proper etiquette here? Or should people know better?

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First off, wine bottles can't talk. Nor do they have arms. Plus, sound doesn't even exist in outer space, so even if wine bottles could talk (which they can't), you wouldn't hear them screaming. But if they could scream, and we could- in cases where sound does not exist- see what they were screaming (sort of like a "closed captioning" for outer space situations) I'm pretty confident they would scream in some sort of Blade Runner font. But only in outer space. If said wine bottle was in the mountains of Tennessee, it would scream in more of a "log cabin" font. But, since being in Tennessee and not in space, we would be able to hear the screams, thus, the need for real-life closed-captioning would be moot. And there'd be no reason for a wine bottle to scream in the mountains of Tennessee anyway. That is, of course, unless it came upon a band of crazed mountain folk, all hopped up on mountain dew and such.

Which brings me to my first thought: why would anyone want to send wine samples to a blogger who is really (truly) concerned about wine bottles in space? What am I supposed to do with these bottles of wine they send? I don't even have a spaceship.

No doubt, many a wine blogger probably broke ground with visions of free wine. Admittedly, when I was offered my first sample bottles (I'll never forget you, Two Friends Imports), I had that "aha" moment that a deluge of good times were around the bend. Freewheelin'. Poppin' corks like Ted Danson was in town or something. Yet, it was not the reason why I started doing this. Honestly, it never occurred to me that free wine might be part of the deal.

photo credit: gq.com

So, on the rare occasions when I'd get some free wine, I'd give it all a nice, evaluative taste, and then I'd post my thoughts on the blawg. Tasting notes and whatnot. Still, I figured doing all this was part of the game, but it wasn't my wheelhouse.

After a couple years in, I had another epiphany: I don't like tasting notes. Even more so, I don't like to read someone else's tasting notes. Not exclusively, at least. Not that there's anything wrong with tasting notes. They help many folks build a memory of familiar smells. But, to me, they aren't interesting to read unless I'm drinking that same wine at the exact moment that I happen to come across said tasting notes. Or unless I've had the wine before. Neither of which happen very often. Instead, I'm stuck reading a memoir of someone else's senses.

Honestly, there a few folks who can pull them off. When Samantha Dugan writes a tasting note, I immediately want to go find that wine and drink it until slip into a haze that finds me lounging carelessly in a hammock for hours. But it's not where her bread is buttered. They just happen to work when she does sling 'em.

When people I really like (say, a Steve Paulo, a Joe Roberts, or a Ben Carter) want to do notes, I can appreciate that they're just trying to keep the tasting chops sharp and honestly educate. Plus, folks like them already have bodies of work that lends honesty to the notes.

But, too often, I read, "I tasted under-ripe bing cherries and bartlett pear skins and the essence of dew upon spring's first stinging nettles." And that makes me want to break a bottle of wine and stab things with it. Because it's so full of shit that anyone who wants to get into drinking wine must get the feeling that you have to be full of the same measure of shit to enjoy a dang alcoholic beverage made out of grapes. Poppycock! (forgive the blue language)

Anyone who has taken the time to stop by this blawg should probably know that I don't write any tasting notes and I don't really evaluate any wines. PR companies that popped by here couldn't possibly think that this is a "hotbed of wine evaluation". If they keep sending them and keep offering to send them, am I being rude and "unprofessional" (as if there's anything "professional" going on here) if they don't get posted? Furthermore, if I lay out in advance that "you can send me wine, but I will almost assuredly not get around to writing about it", does that exonerate me from the common courtesy of acknowledging these wines?

For some bloggers (like Beau Carufel, whom I like a lot), the answer is "no". According to Beau, "Wine bloggers are under an obligation, which more and more of us seem to forget or dismiss, to write about what we're sent." Totally disagree. If I have a taco blog, and someone sends me sauerbraten, am I obligated to talk about it? No! So, if I'm not a "review blog", then no one should expect reviews. If they didn't do their homework, then tough...

...alas, then I start feeling like a jerkass. Thumbing my nose at free wine, and coming off as trying to big-time a little winery that is just trying to get some publicity in a saturated market. Was Nigel Tufnel this conflicted after demanding same-sized meats for his tiny bread?

photo credit: celebrityrockguitars.com

So, as this is a de facto swan song for my days of receiving free wine samples, I might as well list as many thoughts as I can get out here:

1. I think Twitter tastings are cool. If I get some stuff designed for a twitter tasting, I usually tend to participate. Yeah, it's a bunch of people shooting out tasting notes, but I'm tasting along with them, so it's all good to compare and contrast and learn together. That said, if you were following me on Twitter and weren't involved in the Twitter tasting in question, how you wouldn't be compelled to unfollow (at least temporarily) is beyond me.

2. If I do get anything, I never give it away. I will always open it and taste it objectively by myself. After that, it may be consumed, used for cooking, slugged with friends, poured down the drain, or given to hobos who are 21 years of age or older. Cause there's nothing more depressing than an underaged hobo with a discarded bottle of sample wine.

3. Reed's, a soft drink company, sent me a non-alcoholic soda called "Flying Cauldron Butterscotch Beer". It tastes like something that dead elves who go to elf heaven probably drink. Flying Cauldron butterscotch beer is sent directly from elf heaven. It's that freaking delicious. A PR person asked if they could send me some as a sample. I said, "yes, and I will absolutely be sure to talk about it on the blog, you magical purveyors of the preferred beverage of elf angels."

4. There are a few PR folks and wineries that are really cool and whom I like. And if I have a relationship with someone, there's a better chance that I'd have an emotional connection to the product and want to write about it. Such is human nature. I'm no critic, just a dude that cranks away at a keyboard sometimes. That may not be an objective approach, but I'm not in line for a job at the Wine Advocate either.

5. I recently tasted through some wines from Tudal Family Winery (that were sent to me as samples). They were really good. Very balanced, with reasonable alcohol. Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Zinfandel Blend, and a few Cabernets. Tasty with the steak and sauteed broccolini I made. After tasting them, and then drinking them with the food, I took them out by the fire pit and drank them by the fire. They were really good there, too. Made me with I had a hammock out there. So, I guess you'd say that Tudal Family makes some really tasty steak/broccolini/outside/campfire/hammock wines. That's about as good as I can do for a tasting note.

6. Anyone who thinks my approach isn't correct, or isn't "serious" enough, or is setting wine blogging back is taking him/herself too seriously.

Addiction

2011-12-05T20:38:00.001-05:00

The all-knowing, all-seeing, great and powerful Wikipedia claims that "addiction can...be viewed as a continued involvement with a substance or activity despite the negative consequences associated with it."

For some, it is drugs. Others, alcohol. Eating toilet paper has been documented as an addictive behavior...

...and watching My Strange Addiction is an effective way to make you feel better about your previously-thought-to-be "strange" dependence.

Mine is chicken.

But not just any old bird, mind you. I'm here to announce to you, America (and Russia, source of my most traffic and delightful spam comments), that I'm addicted to hot chicken.

For those not from Nashville, Tennessee, hot chicken is a (very) regional delight first made popular by Prince's Hot Chicken Shack. Since its inception, other top-notch chicken dives have popped up around the metro area (Bolton's, 400 Degrees, Pepperfire), satisfying the Music City's cravings for meat, fat, and pain.

The preparation is rather simple: chicken quarters are brined and/or marinated in buttermilk, breaded, and deep or pan fried. As soon as the crispy birds leave the grease, a thick paste of melted lard and cayenne pepper is painted onto the still-shimmering crust and left to set. The whole mess is served atop plain white bread (presumably to soak up the spicy goodness) and topped with pickles.

Of course, I'm just speculating. If I were to discover the proprietors' specific recipes, I'm told my body would be drowned in a boiling cauldron of rendered pork fat and fiery red pepper. I would then be mashed into a paste and be served to other snitches...

... okay, again, I'm guessing. But they'd probably be mad at me if I revealed their secrets and give me a good talking-to.

Bite into Nashville hot chicken, though, and you won't give a damn how it's made. Usually served at various levels of heat, from basically plain-fried chicken to the hell-spawn of Satan himself (my strange addiction), you will only want more. Eyes water. Lips swell with the sting. Tongue, nose, gums, and throat groan in protest. But you keep going back, despite the physical pain and damage done. The interplay of crunchy crust, incendiary spice, moist chicken, and liquid schmaltz... is... irresistible.

"...continued involvement with a substance or activity despite the negative consequences associated with it..."

You are consuming quantities of fat that would make the Crisco family blush. Very possibly, you will not have taste buds for a couple days. But the worst comes later. A few hours after consuming this fiery fowl- and I cannot stress this enough- DO NOT GO OUT IN PUBLIC. Hot chicken's most sinister vengeance sneaks up on the unsuspecting, suddenly and swiftly striking down upon the gastrointestinal system like the mighty hammer of Thor. There's really no other way I can put it.

Yet, you will come back. Addiction, thy name is Nashville hot chicken.

So, if you find yourself in Middle Tennessee, hell-bent on culinary masochism, seek out one of the many hole-in-the-wall chicken shacks. Call ahead if you can, as these places are really popular (supporting the fact that we all are- in fact- aboard a ship of fools). While you're waiting, hit up Nashville's finest wine shop- Woodland Wine Merchant (which conveniently sits equidistant from Pepperfire and Bolton's)- and snag a bottle to pair. The easiest approach is to enter the store, find a friendly associate, and ask for "hot chicken wine". They'll hook you up with a sure winner. Like this one:

Bugey is a region in France- east of Burgundy- that makes some wonderful wines. This was a sparkling rosé number made from mainly Pinot Noir and/or Gamay grapes. The fizz and acidity washed the lard from my palate, and the low alcohol (8%) and slight sweetness didn't amplify the heat of the chicken, but soothed it into submission. Plus, when you have to slug back a lot of beverage to tame the flames, it helps to not be downing large quantities of rocket-fuel.

Granted, all that liquid may cause you to have to use the restroom. So- for heaven's sake- use a fork when eating your hot chicken...

That's a pain that might just put you back on the wagon.

Jumping the Shark

2011-11-28T20:04:00.001-05:00

photo credit: destinyland.org

It's a phrase derived from the fifth season of the sitcom Happy Days. The Fonz, in an effort to prove his bravery, decides to jump over a penned-in shark while on water skis. To Happy Days purists (are there such things?), it was also a clear indication that the writers had run out of material. To this day, the saying "jumping the shark" refers to the seminal point at which something good had taken an inevitable and irreversible turn-for-the-worse.

I- for one- cannot find anything wrong with combination of a pudding pop-cool Henry Winkler and the ominous presence of hungry, hungry sharks. There's got to be a whole spin-off here...

Alas, I am not a successful sitcom writer. But, I do write quite a bit. This is post three-hundred and something. And, over some post-Thanksgiving brews with some friends, I was told that the blog used to be great, but now it's in an awkward limbo between "speaking to the regular joe" and "pandering to the wine aficionado". According to my friends, I've spent too much time immersed in wine and its complex language, and now my posts have fallen into the tar pits of jargon and disrespect for the audience.

Begs the question: has Suburban Wino jumped the shark? Or- given my inability to water ski- did everything end in a horrific crash into the shark pit? Why did I agree to do this? I've never been able to get up on those damn skis! And now a shark is eating my armpit.

photo credit: huffingtonpost.com

I suppose it's very easy to get caught up in the complexities and subtleties of viticulture, winemaking, label laws, aromas, flavors, and all the crap that fills the pages of a Wine Spectator. At the basest form, we're really talking about an alcoholic beverage. A food product, designed to give sensory pleasure. And it's always been my vision to convince others to share just a fraction of my fascination with this food product. Understandably, a body of work evolves over time. But once it deviates from it's desired path, things can go awry.

There's certainly nothing extraordinary about me; consider myself a pretty regular dude. So, I've always hoped to relay wine into the context of a regular dude. Guess as I've burrowed deep into the rabbit-hole, I've lost sight of where I began to dig.

Humbling, but quite necessary feedback, if I'm to succeed in my vision. Or, perhaps the vision has changed. Or, maybe none of it matters. In any case, I guess it's time to drop back and punt...

To the wine aficionados: that's a football reference.

Third time's a Charm

2011-11-23T09:37:00.001-05:00

Forgive the sporadic posting.

I lost my hands in a freak green-harvesting accident, so I type by smashing the keyboard with a plastic hammer that belongs to my daughter. It is a slow and inaccurate procedure.

Anyway, I'm finally taking my WSET Level 3 exam on Friday. It was delayed two times by the proctor (lame), and I'm probably not as prepared as I need to be (even though I was on September 1).

Worst-case, if I fail, I can blame it on tryptophan-induced stupid brain. Or, my lack of hands.

Jive Turkeys

2011-11-15T21:01:00.001-05:00

Quickly achieving a critical mass that is the wine-media equivalent to sports' discussion of Penn State, every wine publication, e-zine, and blog has recently inundated you, nay, molested you with diatribe about what wines to serve with your Thanksgiving feast.

Hmm... very poor word selection there. But lately, poor judgement and Penn State are quite the bedfellows.

Dammit. That's not any better. Luckily, no one's reading.

As I was suggesting, there is a whole lot of bluster out on the interwebs (and in periodicals) about "wines to pair with your turkey". Everyone's trying to find the "catch all" that will work marvelously with you Butterball, your Bruce's Yams, and that freaky Jell-O mold your weird, smelly Great Aunt always shows up with. You know, the one with the Waffle House shoes, wispy bald spot, and matted patches of cat hair upon her equally-matted aqua green sweatshirt featuring a bedazzled pair of kittens.

Don't listen to them. These folks are jive turkeys. That is to say, "not to be trusted". But, if you speak jive, you already knew that.

The problems with finding one perfect wine are many. First off, let's talk turkey. There's really not much to it. Sure, it's encased in crispy, buttery skin. But that is a product of liberal application of butter and salt. The breast meat is tender and flavorful, but only if brined and pumped-up with more salt. The dark meat is greasy. And, eventually, it all dries out. Turkey, ultimately, is pretty bland.

Or, as I like to think: Turkey is like exercise. It's boring, and it makes you tired.

To this end, finding a wine that complements turkey may not be the way to go. There are certainly more flavorful sides, sauces, and accompaniments (stuffing, gravy, cranberries, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, etc.) to consider. But choosing one pairing for each side may not work. Unless everyone wants to have 6 different glasses in front of him. And the table's too crowded as it is, what with that giant decorative cornucopia in the way.

When in doubt, lower-alcohol, higher-acidity wines tend to go better with food in general. Wines from Italy are particularly food-friendly. On a more generic level, sparkling wines, dry and slightly-sweet Rieslings, Chenin Blanc, Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir, and Beaujolais wines can play nicely with lots of relatively bland foods.

Ultimately, if wine and food at the table is said to bring people together (and I know I say it all the time), then you DO need to stock up for Thanksgiving, the cosmic collision of food, drink, and people. Just don't over-think it. Buy a bunch of stuff, ask your local booze store for advice, or tread carefully into the fragmented and unreliable blogosphere for pointers.

Still not feeling comfortable about the whole situation? Beer goes with just about anything. And that ain't no jive.

Apocalyptic Thoughts on the Human Tail, and Getting Sloppy on the Sabbath

2011-11-10T00:52:00.000-05:00

(photo courtesy: bachelorfrog.com)

Georgians no longer need to attend an Episcopal Mass to get a nip of alcohol before 12:30 on Sundays.

One of the few remaining stalwarts upholding "Blue Laws"- or religiously-fueled mandates to protect the sanctity of the Sabbath- the State of Georgia recently put to ballot the ability for counties to decide on repealing or upholding these laws. From the overwhelmingly Christian perspective, the sale and consumption of alcohol had been deemed disrespectful to the observance of a holy day. No outcry, however, against Sunday travesties like that dancing FOX NFL Sunday robot, or- most perverse- the continued airing of American Dad.

As of this Tuesday, the voters spoke with a nearly unanimous voice to tear down these teetotaling walls. Being a non-Presidential/Senatorial/Congressional voting year, literally tens of patriotic pollsters made it clear that their bloated, groaning livers would not remain silent.

Previously, alcohol sales of any kind in any retail establishments were illegal. Restaurants, bars, and other on-premise establishments could not serve until at 12:30 PM, leaving only 30 minutes of tour de force guzzling to prime one's pump for an afternoon of yelling at the TV. Damn Cleveland Browns.

So, what does this all mean? Well, people in qualifying counties and municipalities (not all have held the vote yet) can buy booze on Sunday. At least, after 12:30 PM. Compromise is a bitch.

But what does it really mean? So much more than religion. Something that may bring down civilization.

I've seen Georgians on Facebook celebrating like we got Osama Bin Laden or American Dad got canceled. To me, I see just another convenience advancing the laziness of humans. And that, my friends, is why we're never gonna see it coming. The robots will become self-aware. We'll all be too drunk, throwing empty cans of swill at the TV, because the remote is out of reach, and damned if American Dad doesn't come on right after those NFL games.

Georgia's new law is an evolution of convenience, and one that will make our instincts dull.

Take the appendix, for example. Or, even better, the tail. At some point, humanoids had tails. I mean, we have tailbones now, so it's reasonable to say we had tails (and it's far too late for me to go researching the missing link. Plus, have you ever Googled "homo erectus"? Not the savory, scientific results you'd expect). A tail is used as a counter-balance for a tree-dwelling creature or one that walks hunched-over. At some point, the humanoids began to walk more upright. Having nothing to counterbalance, the tail- once essential- became obsolete.

Native Georgians have always had a sixth sense. An instinctual advantage, if you will. The "Sunday beer" impulse is one that drives a Georgian- without the bottleneck of reasoning- to buy extra beer/wine/liquor on Saturday night. I've personally lost count of the number of times I'd had no plans to drink anything on a Sunday. Yet, there it would always be: a squirreled-away 6-pack of Coors Light tall boys in the crisper. Don't even recall buying 'em. Indeed, an acorn for hard times.

Now, having no need to rely on survival instinct, Georgians will do like the rest of the nation and become soft. And drunk. Vulnerable. To terrorism. To robots. Even zombies.

Think I'm crazy? Watch the show The Walking Dead. Zombie apocalypse. And as the drama unfolds, the writers have yet to tell me how it all started. But I know one thing: the show is set in Atlanta, a place where alcohol sales have recently been approved on Sunday. How's that for a theory? This, my friends, is ground zero.

So take your new "freedoms", Georgia. I'll stick to my instincts. And I'll be enjoying a six-pack of "Sunday beer" while you all are getting eaten by zombies on a Sunday afternoon at the liquor store.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

A Boozy Passage to Port Sangria

2011-11-01T22:11:00.000-04:00

(photo credit: arstechnica.com)

I'm not really a huge fan of Sangria. I feel like I'm drinking Arbor Mist. Plus, I don't really care for pulp in my orange juice, and- as a child- I really hated when some nutrition-pushing jerk would cram bits of fruit into the Jell-O, sneaking it in as if we wouldn't notice its sinister wholesomeness amongst the glorious translucent goo.

THE FREAKIN' JELL-O IS CLEAR! We can see those bits of canned pear. And they're ruining our lime-flavored horse hoof pudding (we didn't know what gelatin actually was at the time. I'm glad the marketeers saw "horse hoof pudding" around the corner, and chose "Jell-O" instead).

So, when someone decides to take some cheap (or past-its-prime) wine, load it up with sugar and bits of fruit, I'm not buying. If I'm going to drink booze that's in its geriatric state, odds are that it's a can of Natural Light I found under my car seat with a "born on" date reminiscent of when Chumbawamba was all the rage. Because that can locks in the freshness. And Natural Light is the "beer with the taste for food" (I feel like I've written that quote on this blog before).

Maybe that's why I was surprised at my reaction to an email from a PR firm wanting to send me Port for the purpose of making "Ciderhouse Sangria". First of all, I'm notorious for never writing about sample wines here (and certainly don't hold your breath for any crappy reviews). Secondly, many PR emails get treated with the same attention as those promising untold wealth from Nigerian princes, or miracle drugs that will give me 36-hour "stimulation" (as if to insinuate that Middle School- the age of awkward erections- was a pleasant time).

But this concept of mixing cider (good) with whiskey (great) with Port (spectacular) lulled me into a waking dream of warming elixir, bubbling in my gullet, keeping Old Man Winter's sobering, icy hand at bay. "Yes, please send me the sample," I unconsciously typed, forgetting my usual caveat that this sample "will almost certainly not be reviewed, and, if so, reviewed beyond any reasonable time frame."

A few days later, a sample bottle of Sandeman Porto from the Thomas Collective appeared at my doorstep. Port, a fortified, generally sweet wine from Portugal (always from Portugal) comes in many different styles. This sample was a basic Ruby Port, meaning it comes from moderate-quality grapes, with the juice having significant skin-contact during fermentation to extract color and flavor, which- following fermentation- is aged for about 3-5 years in large, neutral cask before bottling. Ruby Port is a fitting product for a Sangria preparation, as I would want to drink anything of higher quality by itself. Not that it's bad; it's just the most-modest of Ports.

As it turned out, the resulting punch ended up tasting a bit too much of Bourbon whiskey for me (I had a falling-out with Bourbon in college, and its sweetness is more than I can bear). Granted, the recipe called for Rye whiskey, which I did not have on hand. However, if you do like the taste of Bourbon, or Rye, this recipe makes a very simple, rather original, warming, and potent cocktail that is certainly befitting of the flavors of Autumn:

Sandeman Ciderhouse Sangria
1 bottle of Sandeman Founders Reserve Porto (or any 750 ml bottle of Ruby Port)
24 oz apple cider (non-alcoholic)
3 oz rye whiskey (or Bourbon)
1.5 oz maple syrup
2 Granny Smith apples
2 pears

Directions: Dice apples and pears and set aside. Mix all remaining ingredients together in pitcher. Add in apples and pears. Let sit for at least 8-12 hours (or overnight).

The Champagne Diet

2011-10-28T00:33:00.001-04:00

Once again, I'm on some sort of diet. "Don't call it a 'diet'," my in-shape friend said, cramming another chicken wing into his gaping maw, pieces of poultry flotsam flecking my anemic plate of vegetables. "It's 'eating right'."

Have another wing, you rabbit-metabolism SOB.

But, he's right. I can't call eating better a diet. It really is a matter of making better choices, and doing them regularly; not as a quick fix.

And usually, "eating right" consists of cutting out all the things a Southerner with Irish roots who loves Italian food thrives upon: fried vittles, pork fat, pasta, bread, cheese, potatoes, and...

Alcoholic beverages. Beer and wine. The good stuff, packed with calories. Diet cola and Bacardi rum are given no quarter in my household, and the combination of the two is about as appealing as Lindsay Lohan + Playboy ("hey mac, don't forget to airbrush out the crack pipe and 99¢ Jack-in-the-Box tacos").

Therein lies the rub. Tomorrow (well, today) is International #ChampagneDay. Wine lovers around the world will pop corks and celebrate the hallowed home of sparkling wine. Then, they'll get on Twitter to discuss, share, and enjoy with hundreds of others in the nerdiest way possible: on Twitter; marking their tweets with the 'hashtag' #ChampagneDay, creating a searchable, consistent thread connecting all the myraid conversation.

But, despite the ribbing, these Twitter tastings do create a community around a common theme: drinking, then posting regrettable comments online. It's the American way!

Never being one to thumb my nose at America, I think I'll be taking a temporary break from carbohydrate purgatory to indulge in perhaps my favorite beverage. Maybe this one?

A tempting possibility. Schramsberg is one of the original sparkling wine houses of California. They make phenomenal bubbly from the classic grapes used in Champagne: Chardonnay and Pinot Noir (and perhaps the lesser-known, but important, Pinot Meunier grape as well).

Schramsberg furthermore makes all it's wines in the "traditional method" (or Méthode Champenoise, if you don't mind irking at least one Frenchman). Basically, this means that the grape juice is fermented into a still (non-sparkling) wine, and then added to the bottle with a mixture of yeast and some sugar, creating a second fermentation in the bottle, resulting in the fizz. This is the most classical (and most expensive) way to make a sparkling wine, and it results in a product of superior quality, taste, and complexity.

Alas, if I were to consume the jewel of Napa's sparkling crown, I would not be properly celebrating Champagne. See, Champagne is a region of France, to the East-Northeast of Paris. The name "Champagne", although so often used to describe a style of wine (and Champagne and other sparklers are most certainly wine), technically has nothing to do with the fact that the wine has bubbles.

Wines from Champagne are called "Champagne" because it is believed they express the place itself. The French call the concept terroir. Certain specific places have the climate, the soil, the orientation to the sun, the... je ne sais quoi to create great wine, and those very places are felt to be much more important than the grapes themselves.

In the States, we've been conditioned to buy wine based on the grape variety on the label. Not a problem, but it has rendered the concept of terroir difficult to us. However, just like "San Francisco Sourdough" from Albuquerque is not really San Francisco Sourdough, sparkling wines from anywhere other than Champagne, France, are not "Champagne".

To this end, I'll be tucking into a bottle of Perrier-Jouët Brut (the "Brut" referring to the level of sugar in the wine... this one being pretty dry), provided to me as a sample by the Champagne Bureau. I'll be curious how it stacks up to some of the phenomenal, smaller-production Champagnes I've had recently. Don't think I've tasted the PJ before, so I'm looking forward to dunking my whiskers.

Granted, some readers may know me as a bit of a Champagne-elitist, avoiding the heavily marketed stuff in favor of lesser-known "farmer fizz". While true, I've also been known to wear wolf shirts. And anyone who runs with the wolf shirt pack is most likely an indiscriminate drinker. Like this guy:

(photo credit: kotaku.com)

No way he's turning down a free bottle of booze. In fact, he's probably listening to the Atlanta Rhythm Section right now.

As am I. In my wolf shirt. With bottle in hand. Wanna fight about it?

Sorry, sorry. That was the wolf shirt talking. I love you all, and hope you'll pop a bottle as well tomorrow (today). Happy #ChampagneDay!

The Sonoma Coast

2011-10-25T00:06:00.001-04:00

On a recent trip out to Napa during harvest, I realized I spent a hell of a lot of time in the car (didn't help that it was raining most of the time).

In fact, I came to the conclusion that I spend an awful lot of my life in a car.

Getting out of that vehicle- in good weather or bad- can be quite good for the soul. Especially when exiting at land's end... the seemingly endless Pacific Ocean.

Not sure what it is; perhaps the fact that the western coast of the States is so very different from that of the Gulf, or the low country of South Carolina and Georgia (of which I am very familiar). The Pacific is... mesmerizing to me.

Local Junk

2011-10-20T21:27:00.000-04:00

I just got a taste of "toasted ravioli" tonight. Sure, I've had a deep-fried ravioli (I'm from the South, where we deep-fry anything deemed as "food"), but I had no idea that this culinary coup is actually a signature regional delight of St. Louis, Missouri.

I happen to be here working (happy coincidence is that there's a World Series going on right down the street). When I am in an American city with some measure of culture, there's an innate yearning in my belly to seek out indigenous (or notorious) local grub.

Got me thinking: how many major cities in the States have some sort of iconic junk food? Or, at least something that could be eaten with the hands, at a tailgate, or served by hippies in the parking lot after a Widespread Panic concert...

Miami has the cubano.

Philadelphia, the cheesesteak.

New York City can claim the dirty-water hot dog and the foldable slice.

Boston has lobster rolls.

Buffalo wings, Pittsburgh-style sandwiches (with fries on top), the Louisville "hot brown", muffalettas in New Orleans and po boys along the Gulf coast.

Chicago has the Maxwell St. polish and Italian beef sandwiches. There are Sheboygan bratwursts in Milwaukee (or, at least in Sheboygan. Very big in Sheboygan). Fry bread in Arizona and New Mexico. Crab rolls in San Francisco and burritos in Los Angeles.

And, of course, Nashville hot chicken. I could tell a few tales about that murderous shrew of a dish.

And I have to think, there are so many more. Funny thing, growing up in Atlanta. It's a transplant city, so many residents are from somewhere else. They bring their cuisine (and street foods) with them, but there's always griping that none of it is "quite like home". And everywhere's got something.

So, I'm reaching out to readers near and far to answer the question: what is your city's iconic hand-held dish? I've left so many cities out. And I've probably made a mistake on at least one of the cities listed.

Good People

2011-10-20T00:02:00.000-04:00

If all "wine folks" were like these, we'd all drink wine.

Fair to say, a good portion of the non-teetotaler crowd avoids wine altogether. Why? It's confusing, expensive, and often intimidating. A botched purchase could prove displeasing to the palates of the buyers, or- even worse- cause embarrassment and shame. Embarrassment and shame, over just trying to entertain, be generous, or get a little weird.

The blame can be pointed squarely at "wine people". The one's who constantly come to the table with, "it's sparkling wine, NOT Champagne", or "you don't smell the redolence of Bartlett pear??!" or "I'm relaxing in my villa in Tuscany". And, yeah, I'm probably guilty of all of them. Except replace 'Tuscany' with 'the sticks outside Atlanta' and 'villa' with 'upside-down starter home'. Oh, and I'd spend the rest of the evening trying to kick my own ass if the word 'redolence' ever crossed my lips.

Point being, it's all too easy to make wine inaccessible to others. Even the people out there trying to "demystify and take the snobbery out of wine" are slinging bullshit like "petrol on the nose". In America, Riesling smells like gasoline, okay? Often, we (yes, we, myself included) don't even realize the damage being done. We've been taught by other "wine people", thus adopting- then passing on- bad habits that keep many at a precautionary keg's length away from our wonderful beverage.

But, once in a while, I run across folks who I believe could get anyone to enjoy wine.

After spending seemingly a few fleeting moments with Ben "Benito" Carter and Samantha Dugan in Memphis over the weekend, I knew there was hope for my surly disposition. These two extraordinarily beautiful people-

Benito, the epitome of gracious and accomodating host, renaissance man extraordinaire, gastronome, elder statesman of wine blogging, and...

Samantha, a lovely, delightfully snarky, soulful as hell, heart-on-the-sleeve wine slinger, Champagne/Loire zealot, and damn fine writer-

well, they've done about the best job advancing wine that I've seen in a while. There were no attempts to show off how much they knew about the subject matter. No wacky descriptors. Absolutely zero "snobbery", if I may overuse an overused word in this context.

Standing in for the unpleasantries were: storytelling, jokes, endless conversation (lacking any sort of pretense, or filters for that matter)... there was downright conviviality. And food and wine on the table. Bringing people together. It's a hackneyed theme around these parts, but one so important to the advancement of the beverage I love, nay, to the advancement of humankind in general...

Maybe that's a simple prescription to the woes of the world, but I've never seen a bottle of wine and some good food not bring folks together. And, once we start talking to each other again, we get back to true 2-way communication. Whether that be in-person, or via the virtual villages of Facebook, Google+, blogging circles, etc., our genuine conversing with one another harkens back to a time of community. People would gather to tell stories, share ideas, collaborate, and enjoy the comfort of the herd. Community satisfies basic human needs, and too often we shun these needs in the name of convenience and efficiency.

A bottle of wine, a bowl of bread, and wonderful people are the telltale signs of communion. And I'm damn honored to have these two as a part of it, as our conversation will no-doubt continue and grow through the amazing technology we have at our fingertips...

...provided those fingertips are clasped around a glass of fermented grape juice.

How to Open a Wine Bottle

2011-10-18T00:00:00.000-04:00

I don't think I can explain it any better than this video. Kudos to neighbor Van Burin for sourcing this one.

Personally, if I had that sweet pony tail and smoldering intensity, I would have karate-chopped the top of the bottle right off.

This Used to be Easy

2011-10-11T23:00:00.000-04:00

Used to sit down at this now-overburdened laptop and bang out some drivel about how the A-Team is a perfect metaphor for the four most noble grape varieties of Alsace.

Riesling, the ring-leader and mastermind of Alsace's vinous fame. Some might say the ranking officer. Assertive but balanced, smart and thought-provoking, and prone to aging well. A regular Col. John Hannibal. That handsome devil.

Pinot Gris, the full-bodied muscle of Alsace. B.A. Baracus, perhaps? Don't know if it hates flying, though. But I'll have to admit that Pinot Gris has knocked me on my ass before.

Muscat, a smooth and aromatic experience. Suave. Just like Templeton Peck, aka, "Face"

And, of course, there's bat shit-crazy Gewurztraminer. Smells sweet, often tastes dry. A brilliant and polarizing mind-bender of a wine. Call it "Howling Mad" Murdock in my book.

Piece of cake. "Tell me about Alsace," folks might've said. People on the streets. Everyone wants to know Alsace.

"No sweat. You like the A-Team? No? Okay, let's work with the fact that you're wearing that Oingo Boingo t-shirt. See, Danny Elfman is a lot like Riesling..."

Lately, though, it seems every post has been a struggle. I feel like a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters... but the typewriters are out of ink, and the monkeys; well, the monkeys are just too busy flinging poo to do my bidding at the keys.

Wondering if it's writers' block. Possibly. Not much time to write. Or even think about writing. Such can be life for the swinging international playboy that is a marketing goon for a wholesale distributor of air conditioning products.

But I think "writers' block" is a lazy and convenient excuse. Rather, I'm starting to think that when dealing with a subject so vast, generalization gets tough.

Wine is a rabbit-hole. It keeps going. One's pursuits- real obsessive pursuits- of wine appreciation must be similar to what Lewis & Clark felt when they crested the highest point of the Rockies... only to see more, endless land. "Where's the damn ocean, already?" Of course, when dealing with wine, rather than getting dysentery from a pre-pasteurization expedition, you get a tasty beverage and perhaps a little buzz.

Okay, sometimes you get dysentery too. Stay away from wines sold at gas stations or on the Denny's wine list. Everyone knows a "Grand Slam" breakfast goes better with beer anyway. 'Cause we all know you're hungover.

Here's the point, I think: I don't want to scare anyone away from wine, because it really is wonderful. Oversimplification might do the subject matter a disservice, and complicating what is- essentially- a food product with tons of geeky facts and oh-so-awful descriptions of aromas and flavors can do even more damage. As soon as people are stressed out by the beverage that is meant to relieve stress, I believe they're going to stick with what's comfortable- be that the same wine over and over again, or the reliable 12-pack of domestic brew.

So, to those still reading: thanks. I'm working on it.

And yes, Alsace wine is much more than a cast of characters from a particularly awesome 80's action drama. But it ain't friggin' nuclear physics either. And I think- now- you know that...

I love it when a plan comes together.

Rainy California

2011-10-09T23:38:00.000-04:00

Waking up to the sound of raindrops pattering on the roof is not something unusual... in the Southeast.

Napa Valley in early October? Nothing I've ever seen before. So much for "sunny California". The rains came in last Monday, and save a couple breaks in the grey, held strong until Wednesday afternoon. Being a jet-setter on holiday with expectations of warmth and solar rays, I was disappointed that an ample wardrobe of gaudy Tommy Bahama shirts and Magnum P.I.-style short-shorts stayed in the suitcase.

Despite my inability to showcase the gams, the opportunity to watch the wine industry react to a rainy harvest was fascinating. As the veiled sun set over the Mayacamas ridge to the West and darkness fell over the valley, vineyards lit up with industrial-strength flood lights. These were night picks, intended to collect the ripe grape clusters ahead of the rain (no matter what time in the evening or morning).

The conversation among the insiders was obsessively focused on brix- the sugar levels of the ripening grapes. Was the brix high enough? Are the acid and sugar levels in balance? Have the seeds lignified (turned to brown, indicating phenolic maturity)? Basically speaking, will the winemakers be working with ripe grapes? Acid and sugar are in balance in a grape. As acids fall, sugars rise. At a certain point, enough sugar exists in each berry to provide enough food for yeasts to metabolize into alcohol during fermentation. Furthermore, if skins, seeds, and stems are not yet at their peak, wines can end up tasting "green" and lacking fruit character.

So why not just let that fruit hang on the vine? While it's possible that the grapes will swell with the additional water, resulting in diluted flavors in the grapes (I've heard this point contested by a respected grower), the bigger concern is rot. With moisture (after a dry growing season) comes that very real potential. Wine, especially that which relies upon the fruit of a single-vineyard, has no "do overs". Losing a vintage and potentially millions of dollars of revenue, all on a gamble for riper grapes? I think you'd rather see me in those short-shorts. Barely.

Keep an eye out for the 2011 vintage from Northern California. Sure, you won't see many of the wines for a couple years, but from knowing the raw materials, could we be tasting wines that are leaner, more acidic, and lower in alcohol? Or will instincts, gutsy decisions, and winemaking magic protect the powerful wines that have put places like the Napa Valley on the map?

More importantly, as the consumer, which would you prefer?

Happy September! It's Oktoberfest (or, "Märzen to the beat of a different drum")

2011-10-05T00:00:00.000-04:00

So, who speaks German here? I was stuck looking at the moving map of mein flug, but didn't know where I had to go zurück to change the language back to English.

Basically, my finger slipped and defaulted the language on my Delta trivia screen to German. Usually, 20 rounds of flight trivia would sooth the monotony of a 5-hour flight, but it appeared my efforts were kaput. Especially since all I know how to say in German is "ist das eine schneeballkampf?"

"Is this a snowball fight?" usually doesn't accomplish much...

No matter. Thanks to the magical fairies that had bestowed the wonder of web connection on flights, I had something to do. Granted, while this was a perfect opportunity to disconnect from the world for a few hours, I was shoveling shekels over to the "GoGo In-Flight Internet" tycoons like a crackhead. Said tycoons, of course, being metaphorical dealers of irresistible, delicious, and wholesome New York crack.

Furthermore, my schnitzer with the Delta screen reminded me to write about German stuff. Or at least German-American stuff.

Oktoberfest is a lie! Well, sort of. Technically, in Munich (where the original festival is held), this brouhaha starts in late September, and runs through the first weekend of October (or through October 3- German Unity Day- if the weekend falls on the first two days of October). So, the 16-18 days of revelry fall mostly in September. Itching to get cocked on strong, Oktoberfest-style beer? Tuck in two weeks earlier than you thought! A bierleichen in hand is worth two passed out in the bushes, I always say.

["Bierleichen", for the record, literally translates to "beer corpses". It's a term used to describe the many people who pass out from the relatively strong style of beer served during Oktoberfest]

Fortunately/unfortunately, these beers are particularly delicious. Though generally referred to as "Oktoberfest" beer, a more appropriate name is Märzen (pronounced "Maer-tsen") or Märzenbier. These brews were named as such as I read it because- back in the good ol' days of brewing in Bavaria- there was no brewing allowed during the summer months, for threat of fire (in a process that involves a lot of that). Beers were stored in caves and cellars with ice cut from local frozen ponds to keep them cool. Since the ice was usually available until March, this beer was brewed then, and put down until fall, around the time September/Oktoberfest was cranking.

Interestingly enough, "storage" in German is translated "lager", and the process by which theses beers are made- slower fermentation at cooler temperatures- has earned the namesake of one of the 2 most popular general designations of beer (the other, of course, being ales). The great difference in fermentation time and temp has mostly to do with the yeasts used. Lager yeasts actively metabolize fermentable sugar at lower temps, and over a longer period of time. Ale yeast tend to be quicker and more haphazard.

Lagers are generally noted for their crisp, clean nature, and their maltiness over hoppiness (again, generally speaking). Märzen-style tend to bring a little more heft than a Pilsener-style lager (think most big-box American beers). The alcohol hovers around 6%, they are darker (though, can be made in a light-colored style), and have a really rich, caramel maltiness to them. The bitterness and acidity of hops tends to be dialed down. Think "Brown Ale" with more "brown" and less "ale".

Contrary to popular belief, the German beers (like the Paulaner and Spaten shown above) are no longer required to be brewed in observance of the Reinheitsgebot, or the German beer purity law of 1516. However, many still do, if only for marketing purposes. Or, so they can say a bad-ass word like "Reinheitsgebot".

But, even if you don't want to risk getting tongue-tied with the extraordinarily unsexy German language, you can still drink the beer. Lots of American brewers make pretty swell versions of a Märzen-style Oktoberfest brew. I'm particularly fond of Brooklyn Brewing's effort. As I am of all their beers. Which is funny, because out of all the types of delicious New York crack, Brooklyn is my least favorite.

In any case, if you want to get your bierleichen on as the weather cools, the rich, fortifying taste of these beers will not disappoint. Unless "rich and fortifying" is not your thing...

Which makes you weird.

Manife(a)st Destiny

2011-10-02T11:29:00.001-04:00

Heading out west for a few days (on the plane now).Could be trying to clear my head. Maybe I'm seeking inspiration (evidenced by sporadic posting lately). Perhaps I want to completely immerse myself in the wine of Northern California...

...or, an In-N-Out Burger hankering festered to such strength that I hopped on a plane in the name of "Animal Style".

It'd be pretty embarrassing to admit that...

...

...

...crap, did I just hit 'publish'??! Dammit.Anyway, hope to keep everyone updated on some cool stuff on the FB page. Food porn and whatnot.

Sláinte!
Joe

Uncle Ben's a Jerk (or, "how I screwed up the rice")

2011-09-23T00:35:00.000-04:00

"Perfect every time" my ass.

Okay, okay. I should give Mr. Uncle Ben a break. He's a perpetually smiling, static brand. Uncle Ben has never done anything to me besides look friendly and provide me with cheap sustenance to fill the "meat-sized but can't afford meat, so carb-sized" hole in my life.

I had a tight chicken & sausage jambalaya in the works. How tight? I can't say here, but watch the first episode of the new season of Always Sunny in Philadelphia. That tight.

It wasn't a totally traditional recipe. I usually like to add some Tasso, but bacon in hand is worth two bacons at the store. Besides, jambalaya seems to be one of those dishes that's sort of open to interpretation. Start with a base of the trinity (celery, onion, and green pepper), garlic, add some pepper, some sausage (in this case, fresh andouille, as opposed to the more traditional smoked andouille), chicken thighs (or turkey), sometimes tomatoes, sometimes seafood (I threw in a pound of lump blue crab meat), some herbs, and a bit of stock. Finally, add rice, kill the heat in your giant cast iron pot, lid, and wait about 25 minutes for the rice to steam and absorb all the goodness that comes from a marriage of pork fat, stock, and vegetable juices.

...

But I bungled it. Not Uncle Ben. I should've followed his recipe, but I did my own math. And I ended up with crunchy rice. And- boy- crunchy rice really, REALLY ruined this dish. @#$!^@*@#!!!

The Argument for Temperance

2011-09-19T00:53:00.004-04:00

"Uh oh."

It's the immediate visceral reaction when one's eyes open for the first time in the morning, realizing that the previous night's consumption had spiraled out of control. Like, "Irish Wake" out of control.The mouth full of cotton. The stinky kitten breath. Roiling guts and Manny Pacquiao using my skull as a speed bag. Where did I go awry, and why am I wearing this potato sack and 6-inch pumps?

Hangovers, fortunately, are a rare occurrence these days. I think the drinking/hangover continuum is a self-correcting one. As the human body ages; as kids come along; as the opportunity to lay in bed until mid-afternoon fades into pipe-dreams of the college days, the scales that were formerly skewed heavily to shots all-around begin to balance. Back then, knock back a bloody mary, a plate of fried eggs, bacon, and copious amounts of gravy, and back in business. These days, the bottle of vodka in the cabinet had to be tossed to make room for formula and multi-vitamins. And, everyone knows a hearty bowl of oatmeal is better for one's cholesterol. It's the sensible solution to a good morning. Oh yeah, and you feel like death... after a bender.

According to a particularly half-assed search on the internet, the cause of the hangover is generally unknown. Fusel alcohol, a general byproduct of fermentation, is rumored to be a culprit. In red wines, significant presence of tannins- which contain histamines- can cause allergy-like symptoms that may contribute to hangovers. Some say to drink liquor first. Funny how consuming something that's 40% alcohol on average doesn't start me off on the good-foot.

The most generally-accepted cause of pain is dehydration. Alcohol is a well-known diuretic, inhibiting the body's production of AVP, which- as basically as I can read- helps the kidneys retain water in the system. With the AVP production blocked by alcohol, the kidneys filter out water (causing all that pee), thus, dehydration. Thus, the headaches caused by said dehydration. And I don't think I have the energy to look up the science behind that. Help me out, doctors.

So, if you're going to get crunk, drink lots of water. Like, twice as much water as alcoholic drinks. Mix 'em in. It won't dilute the absorption of alcohol in your system, but the water will offset the affects of dehydration.

But more importantly, unless you're Andre the Giant, don't drink 4 bottles of wine. Keep it reasonable, and you should feel okay the next morning.

If you ARE Andre the Giant, thank you so much for stopping by the blog. We hardly knew ye...

A Simple Food Product

2011-09-16T01:47:00.002-04:00

"Wine... is a condiment."

It's a phrase that was once echoed to me by a friend; passing along the wisdom of an Italian vintner he knew. Call it a reaction to the American view of what is- essentially- a bottle of spoiled grape juice. So, why are we so inclined to put wine on a pedestal?

Between the esoteric labels, the cork-pull, the all-too-particular glassware, the pomp & circumstance of the tasting process, and- dammit, man- the ridiculous aromatic and taste descriptors...

... well, I can see why the beer-drinkers probably want to kick our asses. Hell, I want to kick my own ass sometimes, but I just can't get a good angle on it. I'm working on my flexibility.

When boiled down to the essentials, wine is a combination of water, alcohol, acid, (sometimes) sugar, and a handful of phenolic compounds. It's a food product, like bread. Or cheese. Or tacos. Delicious tacos.

Or, in the case of this particular Italian winemaker, it's equivalent to lowly ketchup. Wine belongs on the table, with the olive oil, the salt, the bread. It's simply... there. Part of the meal; not something to obsess over, analyze, probe with our noses, and- worst of all- to misuse as a means to exclude and belittle others.

Such a simple notion is easy to lose amidst the deluge. I think we all get caught up a bit in trying to impress our friends; to show off a coveted label; to showcase our sensory prowess with a cascade of descriptors... "rose hips", "under-ripe Fuji apple", "delicious tacos". At least I do. And- to that end- I'm still working on that flexibility, to kick my own ass. It's hard.

In the meantime, there is an alternative exercise. Once in a while, I'll go buy an inexpensive bottle, and one that is often cheaper than I'm comfortable with drinking. I bring it home, open it up, pour the entire contents of the bottle into a pitcher, and drink it out of juice glasses with some food. While avoiding the swirl and the sniff, and the obsessing over what the label means (or how many focus groups it took to decide on the highly-marketable packaging), I can just drink. I can strip away everything, and have wine, simply wine, as part of the meal.

And it's usually pretty damn good that way.

Back into the fray, atop a wobbly-kneed ruminant mammal of unusual size

2011-09-13T23:29:00.000-04:00

A lot of folks have been asking where I've been the past few weeks.

No one's really been asking. My mom asked why I haven't called. I talked to her yesterday, but there's something ingrained in a mother to start each phone conversation with "why haven't you called?"

I can't blame mom, though. It's an unconscious instinct for her to ask, like a baby dolphin knowing to rise to the ocean's surface for air, or how white trash folk can sniff out the finest crystal meth like pigs rooting out truffles. I've seen it. Well, I haven't seen it, but I'd like to think- one day- an enterprising young Kid Rock fan will find a bushel of delicious crystal meth with a glorious black truffle right on top, like the proverbial cherry crowning an ice cream sundae. But with more hives and tooth loss...

Or maybe that was just a dream I had. And since when do they sell crystal meth by the bushel? Yes, you've caught me in a lie. I have no idea of the standard weights and measures of lab-created controlled substances. Chalk that good sense up to Nancy Reagan.

The point is: when a moose gets drunk on a bunch of half-rotten, fermenting apples in Sweden, the interweb is telling me it's time to get back on the horse, or the drunken moose. There's far-too much booze-induced brouhaha on this great planet deserving of commentary. Innately, without thought or reservation, I'm compelled by a primal drive to weigh in. Call it "instinct".

So, as far as a moose cow getting cocked on cider and finding itself stuck in a tree goes:

I'm for it.

From Cramming to Lazing.

2011-09-07T00:46:00.001-04:00

...

Reasons why someone would do a very poor job maintaining a blog about wine:

Computer broke; blew new computer money on wine.
~~Illitterit.~~ ~~Ilitteritt.~~ ~~Illiterat.~~ Illiterate.
Does not like wine; prefers Tahitian Treat.
Lack of hands (argument supported by the dearth of Pirate blogs and blogs written by snakes).
Stuck in prison. Pruno tasting-notes becoming tiresome.
James Suckling.
Got addicted to Franzia "Chillable Red" a while back. Spends evenings getting swacked on Franzia "Chillable Red".
Other online opus- a Gravy Vlog- is where bread is buttered.
Ate a bad clam or something.

Unfortunately, none of these fit my situation. I did- one time- ogle some gravy vlogs while drinking a cocktail of Tahitian Treat and Chillable Red.

It happened more than once...

Anyway, with my testing situation in complete limbo, I suppose it's back to writing. Ridden this "cramming" crutch into the ground. Back soon.

Cramming.

2011-08-22T22:00:00.003-04:00

Luckily, when dealing with wine geekery, the force-feeding of knowledge is like an endless supply of sweet, sweet donuts.

Got the WSET Level 3 exam coming up next Thursday (Sept. 1), and I'm way behind in my studies. Until then, let this animated .gif amuse you, or check out some of my favorite blogs (listed on the right-hand side of this page).

See you in the funny papers, as the kids are saying. Hopefully, with another silly credential.

Business Time

2011-08-19T18:05:00.003-04:00

Much like the country's favorite sons, Bret & Jemaine, New Zealand knew when it was business time.

Gathering incredible support like a gale wind off the Southern Alps, the Kiwis struck hard and struck early. In the end, they ousted proud Oregon from the throne to stand alone as 2011's Pinot Smackdown champion.

It's not so difficult to imagine. New Zealand is making incredible wines in Marlborough, Martinborough, Central Otago, Waipara, and beyond.

What the #PinotSmackdown belt acknowledges is that New Zealand isn't necessarily recognized as making the best Pinot Noir in the world (such accolade would create a nightmare of subjectivity), but has most-successfully captured the zealous backing of its supporters on Twitter. The latter run the gamut from those who- daily- have their hands in that Southern dirt, to the enthusiastic advocates who often have their glasses full of that Kiwi red-gold.

So congrats, New Zealand. Wear your belt with pride... and keep your head on a swivel.

for all the stats, pop on over to co-founder, Wine Tonite's, blog

The "Smackdown" Cometh

2011-08-17T00:45:00.001-04:00

It's a slang term-staple at Kid Rock concerts, on Kid Rock albums, at Kid Rock cover-band shows, and probably anywhere Kid Rock fans flock (including Kid Rock concerts, Kid Rock cover-band shows, crystal meth dens, WWE Summer Slam- especially if Kid Rock is presiding, Departments of Family and Childrens' Services, Univerity of Florida tailgate parties, episodes of Toddlers & Tiaras, and Burger King).

Rarely, if ever, is the term "smackdown" nestled into the haughty company of fine wine.

But, when the competitive spirit of the human animal is interwoven with a subject-matter of great debate, we droop- like Ric Flair's aging man breasts- to the basest of lows (especially men). We boil it down to "we're better than you", whether it be sports, politics, or... Pinot Noir.

This red grape, often praised for its uncanny ability to express the place from whence it came, really only thrives in some distinct pockets of the world. However, due to it's ability- when shepherded properly from vine to glass- to create complex, elegant, even haunting wines; wines that perform as perfectly by themselves as they do with meals, these specific growing areas are limited, but prolific. The extraordinary demand requires availability.

Outstanding examples of Pinot Noir-based wines are found in Burgundy (France), Oregon, California, Canada, New York, Washington State, New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, Germany, Italy, Argentina, and Chile (and probably somewhere I missed). So many great Pinots out there... and so many opinions on which are the best.

Naturally, we need to fight about this. To quench our primal urge for combat, the Pinot Smackdown was created. However, despite rampant jibs and jabs, the Smackdown is more-closely akin to professional wrestling: fake competition in the spirit of entertainment for all. Ultimately, if the whole world is united with a glass of Pinot Noir on Thursday, August 18th (via the Twitter community), then there are no losers...

...except those who don't participate. So, if you do have a glass of Pinot Noir in your hand on Thursday, and you like to make magic on the Twitters, just join in the conversation:

1) Get some Pinot Noir. Drink it with friends. Drink it with Ric Flair. He might put you in a figure four leg-lock and steal your wine. Which sucks. You'll need some to dull the indescribable pain.

2) Use a site like twitterfall.com, or free software such as Tweetdeck or Seesmic to create a flow of tweets containing the hashtag "#pinotsmackdown". You can see the conversation from around the world.

3) Tweet, if you wish. If you do, make sure to tag your tweet with #pinotsmackdown. Furthermore, if you're drinking a wine from a certain region, throw an additional hashtag in for the region! We've simplified things this year, so make sure you keep it at a high level, in order for the number of referenced tweets to be collected (for example, don't tweet "I like this Sólena Pinot from Willamette Valley... #pinotsmackdown #WV". Say, "I like this Sólena Pinot from Willamette Valley... #pinotsmackdown #OR"). Keep it simple, and unify for your favorite region.

4) Go crazy with it! You can "vote" as often as you want with tweets, and for as many regions as you please (fake wrestling, remember? Very few rules). You can see the details HERE, or I'll just break down all the qualifying regions for you now, because I think you're attractive:

#OR - Oregon
#CA - California
#WA - Washington
#NY - New York
#46 - U.S. The "Other 46," outside of the Big Four
#FR - France
#IT - Italy
#DE - Germany (Deutschland)
#EU - Europe, beyond France, Germany, Italy
#CN - Canada
#NZ - New Zealand
#CH - Chile
#AR - Argentina
#AU - Australia
#SA - South Africa
#WD - World, as in none previously listed

5) Most importanly, enjoy the wine. That's really why were all here. It's a very elaborate excuse.

And seriously, Flair. I learned a long time ago, at my tender age, to keep my shirt on. Time for you to do the same. Them's some flapjacks, brother.

My Flux Capacitor (or, "The Wine Consumer, Compartmentalized")

2011-08-12T01:55:00.000-04:00

The one (absolutely only) redeeming quality of an awful commute is that it gives you time to think...

Even this is a stretch, but as someone who cruises 17 miles and 39 traffic lights twice-a-day, I have to justify this baffling madness. If only for sanity's sake.

Today's wandering mind took me into retail wine sales. As I concentrated over the creeping, sweaty feeling of my air conditioning perhaps breaking again, things became very clear. Too clear. Sort of a zen-like clarity of thought, not experienced since I realized "race car" spelled backwards is "race car".

Quite honestly, I felt like Doctor Emmett Brown after he hit his head on that 1955 toilet, jarring loose the vision of the flux capacitor, which... makes... time... travel possible.

Unfortunately, my epiphany- a sweaty guy sitting in Atlanta traffic thinking about how to sell wine- would make a far-worse movie. But here it is anyway:

Colorful, huh? What does it mean??

Well, here's where I'm going: seems that all wine consumers can be roughly lumped into four categories, based solely on two criteria: wine knowledge, and wine curiosity.

1. The Disinterested Creatures of Habit (low knowledge, low curiosity): otherwise known as the "gimme my 1.5L of Woodbridge, sonny!" crowd, these folks know what they like, are adverse to change, and don't want to try new things. They are loyal to brands, appreciate consistency, and have little interest in learning about wine. As my mother once said when we ate filet mignon and drank KJ Chardonnay for the ten-millionth time on her birthday, "Son, I've been around. I've tried everything. And now, I just know what I like." For the record, mom is not ten million years old. Not even close.

I suspect the Disinterested Creatures of Habit don't cause shop owners many problems, and turn a good business. But they're probably not much fun to work with, and they buy low-end, with low margin, but perhaps high-volume, sales.

2. The Annoying-as-Hell Know-it-All (high knowledge, low curiosity): I do not work in wine retail, but I can only suspect how many insecure, blabber-mouthed twits come into to wine stores to challenge the personnel. "Oh, really? 'Grenache' from Spain? Don't you mean [with a disturbing, overdone Spanish accent] Gar-nacha??" As I said, I don't work in retail, so I don't know if this actually happens, but based on the proliferation of snobbery and one-upsmanship that oozes from the world of wine, I wouldn't be surprised.

The "listen to how much I know" guy or gal is probably a terror to engage. But, they probably buy some more-expensive stuff, based on some knowledge, and a level of understanding in the production of wine. Higher price doesn't always equate to higher quality, but- as they say- you pay for what you get.

3. The Geek (high knowledge, high curiosity): for lack of a better adjective, these are the most "enlightened" of all consumers. They are the ones who don't only ask for the weirdest, most unique bottle, but they bring in something crazy for the shop owner to try. The "let's get weird" crowd would hang around the store for hours and hours, just to be surrounded by wine, and people who like talking about it. The advantage of these folks would be that they know what they know, but they also know what they don't know. This crowd also understands the sheer vastness of wine, and it always looking to try something new.

For these reasons, the geeks are open to suggestions, check their egos at the door, and just want to enjoy the shopkeeper's latest gems.

4. The Eager Novice (low knowledge, high curiosity): with all due respect to the geeks, these folks are probably the best of the bunch. Because, not only do they love wine, but they are yet-to-be jaded, spoiled, or too critical (stages that all wine geeks seem to go through, yours-truly included). From a geek's perspective, the Eager Novices are sponges for knowledge. They love to learn, and geeks love to teach. This crowd wants to try new things, takes an earnest interest in information that would send most folks into a coma, and ask all the fun questions. They are primed to be molded into future geeks.

From a sales standpoint, shop owners should never let the Eager Novices out of their clutches. If I am honest, genuine, and can provide valuable information, education, and recommendations, I'm going to create a great deal of loyalty from those who thirst for that knowledge. And as novices become geeks, they may bring new novices into the fold...

***

But, alas, these are merely the thoughts of a traffic-jam. If only I had hit 88 miles per hour...

Holy Terroir

2011-08-08T22:51:00.001-04:00

"Does terroir exist everywhere?"

It's the one question I desperately wanted to lob at America's truest terroirist (with all due respect to the Terroirists and the Terroirist Blog), Randall Grahm. Figured the profound-yet-often-abstruse owner of Bonny Doon Vineyards would have an interesting, if not perplexing, response.

Alas, as so often happens at a wine tasting attended by a wine celebrity, said guest of honor can be difficult to corner. By the time I awkwardly weaseled into the featured circle of conversation, my eager line of questioning was hijacked by a more assertive (and perhaps over-served) guest, wanting to blab on and on about [something forgettable] to Mr. Grahm, prompting his evasive maneuver: a polite but terse, "Excuse me. I have to go eat some dinner now."

Not that I've ever been that person... ...

...

Fortunately, the evening- featuring a lineup of Bonny Doon wines (disclosure: I was invited by the local distributor- Empire Distributing- as a 'member of the press'... figure that one out)-was not a total loss, despite my pouting. Grahm opened the tasting with a synopsis of his- and Bonny Doon's- philosophy: to create vins du terroir rather than vins d'effort. That is to say, wine that ultimately expresses the place from where the grapes are grown, much more so than "wines of effort", or manipulated concoctions of a winemaker's hand. As Grahm- quite bluntly- put it [paraphrased]:

"A 'wine of effort' is only as good as a winemaker... that is to say, not very good. However, a 'wine of terroir' has the potential to mirror nature... and that's quite staggering to imagine."

For this reason, a deep respect for the dirt that coddles those vines, Randall Grahm has been a loud voice in the promotion of Biodynamics: practice that goes beyond the stringent requirements of organic farming. Biodynamics essentially think of the vineyard as an organism that is part of a harmonious universe. Astronomy guides planting and harvesting days. Soil preparations can seem... well, unusual to the non-believers. But the supporters of Biodynamics swear by its results. Then again, so do Scientologists.

Ultimately, Bonny Doon's magnum opus is to create California wines that offer "quiet pleasure", not blockbuster fruit-bombs that have become the standard-bearer of the New World. And based on what I tasted, they're on the straight-and-narrow. For most of the night, balance and subtlety filled my glass more than "wow". These wines are certainly not for everyone. Many might find them underwhelming. But for those tired of stereotypical California wine (high-alcohol, heavily-extracted, oak-blasted powerhouses), the wines of Bonny Doon may scratch what itches.

Yet, I'm still not convinced. Just because I'm not tasting big fruit and big alcohol, am I truly tasting the terroir; the "sense of place", of California's North-Central Coast? For anyone who has yet to visit there, to stick their hands in the soil, to breath in the air, and really, REALLY understand where these wines come from, then they are no more than elegant, food-friendly bottles of tasty alcohol...

A crude way to view these wines? Perhaps. But if creating "wines of terroir" means stripping away the pomp & circumstance, the mad food science, and getting back to simplicity, then perhaps that's exactly what Randall Grahm is really asking of us.

Oy Vey.

2011-08-07T23:36:00.000-04:00

After trudging through 3 hours of some of the worst writing I've ever cobbled together, the time came to cut my losses. I mean, there were tasting notes in the post. Tasting Notes!!

In the end, just moments before unleashing the foulest collection of words from the bowels of literary hell, I determined that this had more journalistic merit:

No, the Redneck Vampire does not live in my neighborhood. But he probably lives in the one across the street. I hear his undead bride is pretty trashy.

Anyway, the WSET studying is getting hot & heavy, so I fear that the posts may be a little sparse for the next month. And if I can't get anything good out to you, I'd rather chalk it up to a temporary focus elsewhere, than to shamelessly turn this piece of cyberspace into my personal outhouse...

Back soon, with something worthy of these pages. Which, I suppose, isn't saying much either. But I still love you. And love will keep us together. Or tear us apart. Guess it all depends on if you're into Captain & Tennille, or Joy Division.

What an Interstate Rest Area taught me about Wine

2011-08-01T18:16:00.001-04:00

Truth that wine is everywhere, if you want it to be. Even on an uninspired stretch of highway between Atlanta and Macon...

...and no, there weren't a couple of escaped convicts stirring a batch of pruno in one of the toilet reservoirs. You know I would've gotten a picture of that jive. And probably a taste. And then a shiv in the ribs, otherwise known as a "Putnam County tickle".

Actually, I was heading down to middle Georgia to snap some shots of a renovation project-in-progress for the day job. I should really carry the camera with me more often. When you know you can capture something on film, so many more interesting things pop out at you.

So, I snapped a shot of an unassuming rest area bathroom. I had to: it reminded me of Walt Disney World. As soon as I walked in to that very clean space (kudos, state of Georgia), the powerful scent of bleach and cleaners smelled exactly- EXACTLY- like it did during childhood trips to Disney. The brood would pile into whatever prototypical family vehicle we had at the time (be it conversion van or station wagon), and roll down I-75 for 7 hours until we hit Orlando. Being pea-bladdered kids, we must've stopped twenty times at rest areas. I don't know how Dad did it.

But what I do know is that moments like these only strengthen my conviction towards the evidence that suggests a strong connection between emotions and olfactory memory. Considering I was on the way to the greatest place on Earth for a child of 5-10 years old, there was a heap of anticipation associated with that endless drive. Ergo, I step into a public restroom 25 years later, and I'm immediately whisked back to Space Mountain and mouse ears.

To this end, I've also noticed that the aromas in wine that are most familiar to me often stem from moments when I was enjoying a glass with friends, loved ones, or overlooking vineyards (the latter- I believe- explains why a bottle brought home from wine country never seems to taste as good as it did while you were there). So, I posit that if you want to learn more about wine, and build up your olfactory memory, don't forget to step away from the tasting table once and a while. Take a break from critical analyses and blitzkrieg tasting shows. Grab a bottle, and some friends, pour a glass, stick your nose down in it, and inhale. Take your time. Enjoy the wine. Savor the moment. And you may find you've learned more from that glass than you could from a dozen trade tastings...

...unless it's a glass of pruno. Swig that shizz down and pray for the gag reflex.

Civil War returns to the Commonwealth

2011-07-29T00:44:00.005-04:00

As soon as the chaps at Zephyr Adventures unleashed the announcement that Charlottesville, VA would host the 2011 Wine Bloggers' Conference, I knew there'd be controversy. Allan Wright might as well have been Ed McMahon, announcing a perfect score for Sinbad over Dennis Miller's 3.5 stars on that ill-fated night in Star Search history. Out of left field, California heavyweight Paso Robles and- if the conference was to move East- shoe-in "big four" producer New York were kicked to the curb in favor of...

...Virginia?!

Immediately, I already heard the shit fly in corners of the room, on the bus back to Seattle, online:

"Clearly, the organizers took the highest bid. The vote was ignored."

"Do they even make wine back East? I don't want to drink a bunch of muscadine."

Ad nauseam. Or so it seemed to me. As a proud East-coaster with lots of left coast friends, I guess I hear this stuff once in a while, so it tends to put me on the defensive. Turns out Virginia is the 5th largest producer of wine in the States, right behind Oregon, but the folks in California can seem to dismiss anything outside of California. Again, that's how it sometimes seems to me. Maybe I just see East-West wine relations though piss-n-vinegar colored glasses.

So, given my preemptive position of defense- mobilized with a state within driving distance of my own, I went on the attack on Twitter, started preaching the importance of terroir, begged folks to come to beautiful Charlottesville (while thinking it was an underwhelming place, on paper). Admittedly, I was not as jazzed about the prospects of Charlottesville as I was about the other two proposed locations. Alas, that which is most familar (in this case, in terrain, flora, fauna, and climate) is often least exotic. Sort of like why I pass Chick-Fil-A every day, but will freak out if I don't get an In-N-Out burger when out West. Animal-style, my friends. I ain't no dummy.

Furthermore, we'd be dealing with Virginia wine. Most of those in-the-know have heard quite a bit about the state's burgeoning industry, but few have tasted. If it were good, wouldn't it be distributed better, so folks outside of VA could get a taste? Well, these wines are not distributed well (another issue altogether), so we outside the Commonwealth would be dealing with the unfamiliar. And unfamiliar is scary.

In short, I was pulling like hell for Charlottesville- and the wines of Virginia- to hit a home run. But I feared the Commonwealth had warning-track power, at best. At least I assumed this notion in the minds of Californians (sorry Oregon and Washington, you're getting lumped in. Squeakiest wheel...).

So, when I heard pals from the Bay and friends from L.A. claim how impressed- across the board- they were with the quality of Virginia wine, it really warmed my cold, East-coast heart. I'd assumed the worst, and soon realized that, for the most part, our friends from the West had come with open minds, and curious palates. In fact, a handful of bloggers had been teased with samples of Viognier, a white grape seeming to grow well in the Shenandoah hills. But, to me and several others, pockets of the reds were extraordinarily surprising. Nebbiolo and Cabernet Franc from Barboursville Vineyards showed restraint, complexity, and potential for aging. Petit Verdot from Jefferson Vineyards turned some heads... even those still on Pacific time. Not an epiphany, but a feather in the cap of an extraordinary underdog. And relief for this homer.

That said, there were also some pretty unimpressive wines. And with them came a hearty serving of snark, particularly from freak-nasty folks like natural wine purist and fellow (former, but always honorary) ATLien, Hardy Wallace.

In a way, I sort of get it. I heard a Virginia winemaker discuss "unique terroir" and go into how his wine is "made in the vineyard", then elaborate on deliberate acidification, manipulation, the dozens of fungicide sprayings that are required to eliminate vine-stifling powdery and downy mildew. Is there any real terroir if grapes can't naturally grow there?

Yet, I don't think this is a Virginia problem. There are plenty of awful, heavily-manipulated wines from every corner of the world, even King California (and for goodness sake, there's a popular fungicide called "Bordeaux Mixture"). I think the gripes from Hardy and folks like Richard Jennings were not pointed directly at the host State, but the popular industry in general. Indeed, many wines poured at the sponsored events, as well as "speed tastings" (a whole other animal not worth elaborating upon), left a lot to be desired. At least to the experienced (perhaps spoiled) palate, with which many of use are blessed/cursed.

However, in my relatively short experience with Wine Bloggers' Conferences, I don't really expect the sponsor wines to show well. Some do, but for the most part, they're widgets of the wine marketing machine, designed for the common denominator. It's a shame, because the conference clientele is a mess of wine geeks. Regardless, I write them off as educational; a means to picking out what I like and do not like in wine.

To me, where the real, true value of these conferences lies is in the camaraderie, and the contraband... wines, beers, and liquors smuggled in; each participant's personal "stash". We all communicate online for the entire year, and in the few days we get to carouse in person, the ones who "get it" put down their phones, leave their laptops in the room, and disconnect- in order to try connect. Side-events and after parties showcase the best that people- and their home states or favorite places- have to offer. We jockey to wow each other, shift some paradigms, and puff out our chests a bit. New friends are made, as cliques eventually break down, and people step away from their devices, put themselves out there, and say, "hey, nice to finally meet you in person." Then, they pop corks or bottle caps and say, with a gleeful smirk, "come 'ere. You just gotta try this."

At last, we drink instead of think, we toast instead of taste, and we celebrate the fact that wine- which has always brought people together- is bigger than blogs, tweets, tasting notes, breakout sessions, sponsors, Google analytics, readership, geographic bias, and regional differences. Wine courses through all our veins, and we realize that no matter where the grapes are grown or where the hotel is situated, everything is in the right place...

...

...and, of course, if you got nothing out of this post, as promised:

Still handcuffed by Virginia

2011-07-27T00:00:00.003-04:00

Sitting on edit #4 "on paper", and probably thought #500 in my nebulous cranial space...

Just really don't know how to approach my thoughts on Virginia, on wine, on bloggers, and on blogger conferences. And, of course, the cosmic collision of them all.

I could fill a book with my feelings of gratitude, confusion, defensiveness, agitation, admiration, surprise, and other sundried adjectives to describe an addled mind. But a blog post is no place for a book's-worth of words (looking back on many posts, I need to tie a string around my finger on that one).

In an effort to better formulate my own opinions, I've gone out and read the reaction of those who were quick(er) on the trigger. I saw a (quite) thorough account of disappointment, light-heartedness, pleasant surprise, a weird mashup of snark/gratitude, and some understandable defensive positioning from homers. Funny how I don't remember this variance of reaction after Walla Walla. However, so much opinion out there makes one introspect quite a bit. What did I get out of it all? I think I know, but translating it to the written word is shaping up to be quite a... well, a bitch.

Looks like the only way that things can be sorted out is to break this mess up:

1. Talkin' wine
2. Talkin' conference
3. Talkin' blogging

But why the disclaimer? Because I know that many of you who read this are not bloggers. And many don't care about a conference that went down in Charlottesville, Virginia. However, I trust that there will be bits of value to any readers in these posts.

And if there is not broad-reaching value, I'll post a picture of monkey doing gymnastics or something...

Playing Catsup

2011-07-26T01:14:00.002-04:00

Or "ketchup". Or "catch up". Whatever, as the kids are saying these days.

Got a hot mess of thoughts on the recent Wine Bloggers' Conference I attended (without letting y'all know... who am I to impose my every living detail upon you?). Along with said hot mess, I also have a giant, red, plastic bucket full of thoughts about the general concept of making wine in Virginia, Virginia wine country, tiny dogs, and drinking wine out of a water bottle on an empty street in the middle of Charlottesville at 4 AM.

Yeah. A giant, red, plastic bucket.

Not sure if I want to bear solely my own feelings, or react to the praise/vitriol already splattered about the cyberspace by more timely and enterprising bloggers. Alas, before even considering that, I must catch up (see what I did there?) on the day job that has nothing to do with wine and (currently) everything to do with me acquiring American dollars to exchange for services and goods- many of those goods being wine. And a few beers. In a giant, red, plastic bucket...

...just like my thoughts. But tastier, and less harmful to brain cells.

Put these peaches in your mouth.

2011-07-20T16:30:00.000-04:00

Someone asked me to post this recipe on Twitter. Posting a recipe in 140 characters is a real painus in the anus. Here, I can go on and on and on and on (and on)...

...not that that's ever happened.

For the sake of brevity- and food porn- I'll deal mostly in pictures here. Said to be worth a thousand words, these pics are worth a thousand calories, all under the guise of healthy eating (hey, it's fruit, right?)

Either adapted or stolen directly from a Steven Raichlen cookbook, I present Grilled Peaches:

1. Procure brown sugar, butter, and Bourbon. Any self-respecting household should have all these things on hand at any given time. Also, get some peaches. If you're in Georgia, get Georgia peaches. What is this, amateur hour?! The are very ripe white peaches from Fort Valley, GA. Oddly, they don't smell like peaches, but exactly like Riesling. See what I did there? Silly, huh?

2. For the sauce, start melting the butter in a pan over medium heat. I used 4 oz. The quantity is not critical. What is important (for the sake of this recipe, anyway) is to have a 1/1/1 ratio of butter/brown sugar/Bourbon.

3. Once the butter's melted, add the brown sugar (in this case, you guessed it, 4 oz.), and stir until it melts into the butter.

4. Once the sugar's melted, move the pan OFF the flame (or turn it off entirely), and add in 4 oz. (or whatever fits your ratio) of Bourbon.

5. With a fancy gas range, I just tilt the pan a bit over the flame, and the Bourbon will ignite. Use a long lighter on an electric range, and a flaming arrow if you're a great distance from the pan, and an excellent marksman. Allow the flames to subside, then remove from the heat so the carmel/booze mixture doesn't burn.

6. Cut your peaches in half. Use a sharp knife or precision karate chops.

7. Pour the syrup-y goodness over you peaches and toss to coat.

8. Yeah, my grilling picture sucks. But grill those buggers over a hot flame for a few minutes, just to heat everything up and get a nice varnish on the peaches.

9. All you health nuts can just go ahead and eat the peaches at that point. But us regular folks- who might wear tennis shoes or an occasional python boot- like to use the peaches as a topping for ice cream or gelato, which is Italian for "expensive ice cream".

10. If you have extra syrup, go ahead and pour it over the dessert. You deserve it, you handsome devil.

The Best Wine Post Ever Written

2011-07-14T22:32:00.001-04:00

After sipping on some wines sent to me (as samples) from Virginia Wine, I didn't spit out enough and have a confession to make: I don't write these posts. I have a ghost-writer. However, with the WBC looming, it's time I come out of my shell and write my own material. Away we go...

Virginia is for lovers, WINE lovers that is (LOL!). Tonight, I got to open six bottles of Virginia Viognier (which is a kind of Chardonnay), and they were super-yummy! YUM-O, as Rachael Ray might say! I love Rachaell Ray! LOL, girlfriend! We need to PAR-TAY soon when I'm a famous blogger!

Anyway, the Viogniers were super tasty and also G-R-E-A-T!!! They were fruity and grapey and smelled like Chardonnay and flowers and peaches and pears and honey and fruit and stuff. They tasted like if you poured a bowl of fruit into some wine and then drank it. Like a fruit cup filled with vodka! They should make a bomb out of that! LOL! I can't wait to pair these wines with dinner. These Viogniers would be super-good with chicken ceaser salads and shrimp ceaser salads too! The best would be to make them into S-A-N-G-R-I-A. Holler! DeeeeeeLISH!

I would definitely buy these wines, and you should too! ZOMG!!! So next time you're in a fancy restaurant with some hottie, ask the somilyer if he has any Viognier Chardonnay from Virginia. Then, you'll look all smart for your date, and it will be awesome!!!!!! LOL!

I'm not sure where you can buy Chardonnays made out of Viognier, but tell them I sent you! LMAO! Like me on MySpace HERE!!!

Fine. I had a crummy day. Thus, a curmudgeon-y post. However, the day ended well. Tried six Viogniers (which is not Chardonnay, by the way. Totally different grape) from six Virginia wineries: Horton, Blenheim, King Family, Barboursville Vineyards, Copper Vineyards, and Delaplane Cellars. Solid juice. Distinctly "Virginia", though I'm not yet sure what I mean by that. Eager to find out soon, when I can get my hands in that Shenandoah dirt.

I really, REALLY hope this underdog can shock the world with all those West Coast palates in Charlottesville next week. Go get 'em, kids. I cheering for you like crazy.

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What you REALLY need to know if attending the Wine Bloggers' Conference

2011-07-11T22:23:00.001-04:00

As the countdown to the 2011 North American Wine Bloggers' Conference has hit single digits, I've noticed a measure of lists and tips spring up from WBC warhorses like Ed Thralls and Thea Dwelle; nuggets of wisdom passed down from the grizzled vets on the ropes, the decorum, the trade-secrets...

Now, with all due respect to two folks whom I consider friends, there were some glaring omissions in their posts. Any first-timer should seriously entertain the following in order to maximize the experience:

1) Never underestimate your opponent. Expect the unexpected.

2) Take it outside. Never start anything inside the bar unless it's absolutely necessary.

3) Be nice.

...

...hmm. Er, I actually think that was Dalton from Road House. The excessive combination of pop-culture references and 10-15% ABV alcoholic beverages is taking a handsome toll. Not quite Patrick-Swayze-doing-Tai-Chi-handsome, but in the ballpark.

Alas, I digress (yet again). Sure, I can certainly see some value in a laundry list of rules and tips and guidelines for new participants. However, I don't agree with a "one size fits all" code of conduct for such an event. I'm certain that was not the intention of other bloggers and their lists, but I can also see how a first-timer's perception of what to expect could be skewed by the words of a highly-respected and tenured member of the wine blog community. "If you don't take the event seriously; if you don't kiss up to the sponsors, then you'll become the pariah of a tight-knit fraternity." Again, I'm not paraphrasing what others said, but I can certainly see how some of the advice could be misconstrued that way. Plus a little hyperbole. That's how I roll.

Here are my two cents, taken at face-value, and nothing more: there will be 300 wine lovers descending upon Charlottesville, Virginia in less than two weeks. Some will be there to network, some to write, some to taste and spit and take notes, some to sell, some to buy, some to get off on drinking booze at 10 AM (7 AM PDT). Folks will gravitate to others with similar interests and objectives, and even those with polarized motives will still share one significant common-thread: an absolutely infectious love of all-things wine. I don't know about y'all, but- as a family man in suburban Atlanta- I realize painfully few chances to uninhibitedly geek out with 300 other wine nerds.

Charlottesville is stunning. The people are friendly. This will be a visit to a new, relatively obscure American wine region for many. And corks will be popping left and right. So soak it in. If you want to blog, then blog. If you don't, don't. But I see an opportunity to get away from the gadgets and tweets and tasting notes - that all can be done at any time, from anywhere. But for most of us, there's only one time a year when we can come face-to-face with the people who have shared with us so many laughs and conversations via social networks. Give 'em a handshake. Hell, a hug. And pour a couple glasses, reveling in the fact that wine has done what it has for generations; like an intimate dinner table for 300, wine has brought us all together.

But seriously, Thea was right. Do spit out some of that wine. Passed-out by 11 AM is a silly business.

Stuck on First Impressions

2011-07-05T23:27:00.002-04:00

When someone tells me he doesn't like wine, I sort of get it. It's simply a case of a bad introduction.

Not so oddly (bear with me), I credit George Harrison with this surprising measure of leniency/understanding. For anyone who has lived under a rock for the past 50 years (or, for the legal-drinking citizens reading this blog who were born in 1990... cripes!), Harrison was one of the original Beatles, an accomplished songwriter, an amazing solo artist, and a ridiculous guitarist. I mean, the guy wrote "Something", dammit. And- of course- he put together All Things Must Pass, perhaps- in this guy's humble opinion- one of the finest rock albums ever compiled in the history of popular music. George Harrison was masterful; an icon. Rock & Roll history must be re-written without him.

Alas, this was not my first impression of the "quiet one".

In 1987, I was eight years old. My older brother- sort of a rock & roll appreciation savant- kept a healthy dose of MTV and VH1 on the tube at this point. Amidst the extraordinary cheese being pumped out by ailing acts like Billy Ocean and Mr. Mister, I distinctly remember a particularly-creepy fellow with an awful mullet and a penciled-in five o'clock shadow playing campy guitar riffs while some 80's jerk-ass tried to get a prize out of one of those jerk-ass claw games at some jerk-ass arcade for some jerk-ass 80's dream girl. I further recall that stupid song being played during elementary school physical education classes, usually involving me having to dance with girls. At eight years old. Not cool.

Alas, the artist was George Harrison, and the song was "Got My Mind Set On You", a cover of a James Ray R&B tune from 1962. I don't remember much more than I've already described, but one thing was (and still is) clear: it sucked. The day I found out Harrison was the lead guitarist for the Beatles, I was stunned at how one person could fall so far from grace*.

Unfortunately for this little tike, I harbored quite a lot of ill-will towards a great musician, based solely on a first-impression that painted a very atypical picture of the body of work. Such is- far too often- the case with wine.

Some people love Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. That's fine. More power to 'em. Yet, some find it to be vile, nay, unholy. Here's the rub: I posit that rather often, folks' first impressions of the noble Chardonnay grape is in the form of a bottle of TBC (or equivalent) at a backyard cookout, a tailgate, an engagement party. I further suggest that a good measure of these people think it does not taste very appealing. At that point, they make a broad-brushed declaration that Chardonnay is no good, and not for them (or even worse, wine in general).

Sadly, Two Buck Chuck is a widespread and easily-acquired ambassador of a grape that produces some of the most expressive and complex wines in the world. However, because of an unsavory introduction, a stigma has been created; one that can be difficult to shake for some. However, I can imagine how this situation could be completely reversed. What if a person's first taste of Chardonnay was in the form of an incredible Puligny-Montrachet, for example? One chance encounter (unfortunately, leaning heavily towards the cheap stuff, based on availability and price) could mean the difference between a wine-hater and an instant oenophile.

Here's my point: those who have made up your mind, open it again. Like in the world of music, even the same artist- hell, the same song- can be manifested in dozens, hundreds of styles and expressions. And if you still can't make peace with Rock & Roll's Chardonnay, there's always Techno's Riesling, Classical's Pinot Noir, Reggae's Roussanne, and Hip Hop's Mourvèdre.

*for the record, I don't hold George Harrison responsible for that crap. I blame Jeff Lynne, that over-producing sunuvabitch. Keep your ELO** away from my Beatles, you curly-headed freak.

**actually, I kinda like the Electric Light Orchestra.

July 4, 2011

2011-07-04T00:00:00.000-04:00

Fighting the Sea Monster, Round 2

2011-07-01T00:20:00.001-04:00

(alternate title: "Fighting male-pattern baldness". I think it's time to throw in the towel and Bic that bitch. But how awkward if I end up having a birthmark that says "Live Nudes" or something...)

About a year ago, I decided to buy an octopus and cook it. Maybe because it was cheap. Maybe because I'd been mesmerized by a recent viewing of Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, and felt humans had to even the score. Or, perhaps I'd cobbled together a stash of Assyrtiko, and was compelled to cram my suck-hole with something briny and very Greek. After determining that a long kiss with Olympia Dukakis would be too Greek (and certainly far-too briny), I opted for an octopus.

But here was the problem: like nibbling into the lower lip of Olympia Dukakis' leathery maw during the hypothetical make-out session that should have never advanced to this disturbing point, my cooked cephalopod of one year ago was exceptionally chewy. Like rubber.

But that tends to happen with octopodes. The interweb is littered with tips and tricks to eliminate the chew. A sort of boiling method- last year's opus- failed miserably.

So why battle this tricky little critter again? I blame it on a recent meal at Atlanta's Kyma, where they crank out an octopus dish so tender and delicious, it's like eating heaven, provided heaven is an 8-legged sea creature that predicts soccer matches. Honestly, good octopus is akin to a firmer, milder scallop, in my opinion. If that sounds like something in your wheelhouse, then you can understand my misguided persistence. Gleaning some hot tips off our waiter, I opted for a new preparation, sure to be a smash hit.

Out of a marriage of trade secrets and my own chops in the kitchen, I decided to cut my octopus into individual tentacles, braise it for an hour in a mixture of red wine vinegar, olive oil, lemons, garlic, fresh oregano, salt, and pepper, then finish it with a good crisp on the grill. Tender and Crisp was the goal. Like a Burger King TenderCrisp sandwich, except edible.

(no matter how it turned out, few things look cooler than a tentacle on the grill).

I garnished with some grilled lemon slices, a few herbs, a sprinkle of sea salt, and a drizzle of good olive oil...

...disaster. So chewy. Inedible to some.

Sea Monster - 2. Balding Land Ape - 0.

I guess all I can do is toast that which has become my latest white whale...

...at least until I get my peepers on Mega Shark vs. Crocosaurus. Gator tail, anyone?

Avoidably Detained

2011-06-28T22:36:00.006-04:00

It's not that I don't love you, I just love Champagne more. Or, should I say, I love to pop some bottles for good friends.

Off a roughly-seven month run consisting of kids' birthdays, family events, weddings, and the miscellany consuming the life of a thirty-something suburbanite, the past weekend seemed an appropriate time to slow down and enjoy. Fun and food with good neighbors, some splashing around and hopefully-not-pooping-in-it pool time with the li'l critter, and general relaxation. Rather, relaxation that has been a leprechaun riding a unicorn. That is to say, rare (but surprisingly easy to find online).

So, while the blog is peppered with occasional posts in which I feebly gripe about being too busy to write, I've penned this one to say I haven't posted in 5 days because I desired to get off the grid. Take some time to enjoy the blessings that have surround me. You know, at least for a couple days.

Funny how we can get so caught up in studying wine, discussing wine, analyzing wine, and arguing about it. The past weekend has served as a good reminder that our beloved beverage works its most-brilliant wonders when it is simply enjoyed in the company of friends...

...and I was talking about the kid pooping in the pool, not me. But I can see how that would throw some folks.

A Dogsbody to Labour and Practise.

2011-06-22T22:16:00.001-04:00

It's British. The King's English. And it can- surprisingly- get a little tricky to understand.

"Black grapes"?

"Vineyard aspect"?

"Colour and Flavour"?!

No, my quiet neighborhood has not been overrun by limey bastards. But they do keep sneaking over the border. The sudden proliferation of Heinz canned "Spotted Dick" at my local grocery purveyor is a dead giveaway. Yet, you fools assume our borders are secure...

Actually, I've begun my study for the Wine & Spirit Education Trust (WSET) Level 3 Advanced. The above-mentioned are common phrases seen within the study material.

Why the lingo? Well, it's a British accreditation. And I'm digging in because I need to brush up on wine knowledge. Because I want to build on a modicum of credibility. And because I long to master the three main wine-centric associations in existence: Society of Wine Educators, Court of Master Sommeliers, and WSET. (Joe Roberts at 1WineDude slings a good breakdown of each HERE).

WSET is the logical choice: an opportunity to study it has arose. I already have the CSW (Certified Specialist of Wine, or "Certified Social Worker" on LinkedIn, or "Certified Suburban Wino", coined by someone much more clever than I) from the Society of Wine Educators. The more-advanced CWE (Certified Wine Educator) is currently way out-of-my-league. At this point, the CWE is Lisa Turtle. I'm Screech Powers.

There's also the Court of Master Sommeliers. I've always craved this one, so I could call myself a sommelier. Unfortunately, the Court just doesn't have a training and certification schedule I can work around at this point. So, no, I will STILL not be a certified sommelier. But that's okay. I'm not sliding into my slim-fit tuxedo I bought in college anytime soon.

But WSET is not a bad option. It's pretty comprehensive. The materials are well-written. Furthermore, the WSET Advanced incorporates an element of tasting evaluation in it's certification. And my palate is stupid. Like "Paris Hilton" stupid. So having an organized (organised?) methodology with which to train it is huge. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

And so, for these- among other- reasons, it's time to dig into the WSET materials, written in British. With plenty of swot, some codswallop, a few nights on the piss (getting rat-arsed on plonk), and definitely some spawny circumstances, I'm confident everything will be bloody brilliant.

Resurrection

2011-06-19T21:40:00.002-04:00

Leftovers are a drag.

To some, this is an inflammatory statement. Akin to saying, "I can't stand Glee." (btw- I can't stand Glee).

So, before I'm verbally smacked in the face with an open-faced meatloaf sandwich (or accosted my a rabid army of Gleeks), let's break this down:

1) Eating the same thing in sequence is very boring. This is why I'm not in the military, avoid prison, and run through failed diets like a pack of smokes at an Al-Anon meeting.

2) Many foods, though delicious initially, lose a whole lot of luster when refrigerated and reconstituted.

Eating leftovers- ones not meant to improve overnight like a pot roast or a soup- is like fighting a gustatory battle against the evil forces of hunger with a decimated officer Alex James Murphy, pre-Robocop enhancements.

But, even when dealing with the most-ravaged of leftovers, a little culinary surgery can turn the most lifeless Steve Austin into the Six Million Dollar Man.

Take, for example, the low country boil (or "frogmore stew", "shrimp boil", or any number of regional names). This southern, coastal delight is a mash-up of shrimp, corn, potatoes, and sausage, boiled together in seasoned water (most traditionally, in straight-up seawater). Generally made for a large crowd, the one-pot feast is dumped onto a table covered with newspaper, and devoured by famished, often-tipsy, party or tailgate guests.

When the crowd has been eating all day, the chance of leftovers is more palpable. What's left? A fridge full of Murphys and Austins:

Cold, greasy sausage, enveloped in a film of congealed pork fat. Wrinkled corn. Potato mush. And, of course, shrimp that have already been cooked once. And overcooked shellfish is an abject disaster.

Alas, at times, fiscal responsibility outweighs the desire to discard. With a few ingredients and some basic know-how, you can rebuild it. You have the technology.

Six Million Dollar Pasta (or Robocop Pasta, if you prefer)

1 Tbsp unsalted butter or olive oil, or a combo of both

1/2 lb. smoked kielbasa (about the equivalent of 1 link), cut into 1/4" half-rounds

4 scallions, chopped (greens and whites)

2 stalks celery, finely chopped

2-3 heads of garlic, minced

1 red pepper, seeded and cut into strips

1 Tbsp cajun seasoning

1 Tbsp all-purpose flour

1 Cup whole milk or half-and-half

1/2 lb. cooked large (30-35 per pound) shrimp, peeled and deveined

1/2 lb. (1/2 box) dry pasta (in this case, linguine)

Salt & Pepper to taste

1) Melt butter, or oil, or combo of both (I like that one) in a pan. Add the kielbasa sausage and sauté on medium heat until the sausage has given up some fat.

2) Add the scallions, celery, garlic, peppers, and cajun seasoning. Sauté until veggies are a little soft (3 minutes)

3) In the meantime, get at least a half gallon of water a'boilin'. Salt and keep bubblin'. Yes, I hate the letter "g".

4) Add the flour and mix into the goodness. Once the flour is incorporated and has absorbed the fat, add the milk. Put the spurs to it and crank the range to high (the flour will thicken the milk into a sauce, but only once the liquid boils (don't ask me the science on this). If the sauce gets too thick, add more milk, a bit at a time. Bing bang boom.

5) Add pasta to boiling water after the milk goes in.

6) Once the cream sauce is how you like it, add the shrimp, basically just to heat them up. Salt and pepper to taste.

7) When the pasta is ready, strain it and dump into the sauce (I also like to add a small ladle of the pasta water to the sauce).

8) Garnish, or don't garnish. I don't care. And who am I to influence your garnishing decisions?

I know your first instinct is to drink a tall glass of whole milk with this. However, since there's already a bunch of whole milk in the recipe, do something wacky and drink wine. In the case of this dish, containing both a seafood element and some sausage, I figured there may be opportunity to go either way- red or white- with the wine. Fortunately, PR pal Constance had slung me some sample New Zealand beauties recently (okay, it was a long time ago. PR folks: I'm a really terrible person to send wine to). In any case, they fit the bill: A Sauvignon Blanc and a Pinot Noir. White and Red. It was meant to happen this way.

The wines of New Zealand always tend to be great with food, especially from the Marlborough region (on the South Island). The significant distance from the equator and the maritime influences 'round those parts make for bottlings that aren't too heavy, are crisp and clean, and bonzer with chow (though I think "bonzer" is an Aussie saying, and now I've lost my entire Kiwi readership). Although many other wine grapes are grown in New Zealand, Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir are definitely the ambassadors for white and red, respectively, and neither of these offerings disappointed.

In the end, the acidity of the Sauvignon Blanc balanced the rich pasta dish, with pronounced grapefruit goodness to tame it's fiery cajun soul. The Pinot Noir, although tasty on it's own, didn't jive with my lofty aspirations of a colorblind meal...

...but it was bionic; resurrected from a refrigerated tomb to bring hope to generations of leftovers.

Wine Label Hell

2011-06-14T23:11:00.004-04:00

This post is a disaster of misuse. All these pics were pulled from somewhere on the interweb. They are not intended for business purposes, as the business of this blog is not very profitable. Or profitable at all. If you get mad about a pic, I'll take it down. But I'll be sad. And so will my readers. They're a sensitive (and smart, and good-looking) bunch.

I was reading a very old post on Dr. Vino today about a contest to find the worst wine label. It got me to thinking... has the worst label really even come to market yet? So many possibilities...

...oh, and I'm trying to play it cool and sophisticated, but if I saw any bottle with one of these labels, no matter the swill within, there's about a 100% chance I would buy it:

and, the pièce de résistance:

Got a pic that would make a really awesome/terrible wine label? Throw it up on the facebook page at facebook.com/suburbanwino, and let the weirdness ensue!

Looking Back, Looking Forward

2011-06-10T02:44:00.002-04:00

Exactly one year ago, I found myself in the most terrifying situation imaginable.

Only 9 hours after my daughter Olivia- my first born- had come into the world, I'd lost her.

Or so I was convinced. As my labor-battered wife slept in her bed, and I on a bed-like bench device (it didn't matter; there are moments of exhaustion when one can sleep anywhere), our swaddled little 7 lb., 7 oz. hot potato started to cough. In a trance-like state, I arose and began to gently pat her on the back, being ever-so careful as not to damage this helpless and completely dependent little human. My little human.

At that moment, the nurse rushed into the room ("thank God," I thought. "I don't know what to do with these things yet."), snatched my hacking child from my arms, and all but banged her against the wall to remove what was residual amniotic fluid from her lungs. The deliberate action of the nurse convinced me: I'd killed her. Nine hours into parenthood, and I'd already failed. Miserably. Like, "manslaughter" miserably. A fear; an unbelievably panicked and devastating feeling rushed through my exhausted frame.

"It's no big deal," the nurse calmly stated, clearly running a drill she'd done a thousand times in the presence of confused, terrified, utterly-shellshocked new parents. "She's fine. Go back to bed."

An impossibly huge exhale. Then a smirk. It was a revelation. My precious daughter was more durable than I had thought. She wasn't going to leave this weird and wonderful new world. And, without knowing it, she reassured her new father that- yes- he could do this, and maybe even succeed at it.

365 days later. Life is different, but not that different. Involvement in the wine community is more difficult. Blogging is definitely tougher. But, like that little 9-hour-old who had no plans of wimping out, a parent adapts, and still continues life. Sure, I used to put posts out at 10 PM. So what? They go out at... uh, it's 2:15 AM now. Dammit.

But I can't say I'd change anything. Sure, there's no sleeping in the weekends. Yeah, a night of overindulgence- previously remedied by laying on the couch all day and eating Chinese food- is followed by the actions of any other day: being a parent and caring for a child. Let's just say, an evening of copious wine tasting doubles as an evening of water tasting. A parent adapts. And when even the groggiest papa walks into the nursery, and he sees that smiling, excited face peeking back at him from between the slats of the crib, not even the strongest pain medicine can bring more comfort and delight.

As year two of parenthood unfolds, I fully intend to keep writing, despite the significant constraints on time, and a newfound and persistent sleepiness. Why? First off, because I do love it. And secondly, somehow, some way, I know that this will lead to the best possible life for my family (which has nothing to do with the money made through a blog. Volunteer work pays better). However, there are surely some opportunities out there. And, though this little 3-year-old experiment, I've built a network of wonderful people in the food and wine industry, many of whom I would consider good friends at this point.

To all of you, I thank you for your patience with me, and with the inconsistent nature of the blog this past year (hell, it was always inconsistent). I sincerely appreciate your support, your comments, your feedback, and- most of all- your friendship.

Now excuse me while I go wash those damn bottles. And is that poop on my shirt?

...

Nope. It's strained peas.

Werewolves of Lyon

2011-06-08T00:00:00.006-04:00

I recently drank some pretty good Roussanne. Thus, a picture of Scott Howard "wolfing out" leads.

Here we go again. Hang on... let me explain.

During a gut-busting, teeth-staining wine dinner (paid my way... take that, disclaimers) featuring the luscious vittles of Atlanta hotspot Local Three- cozied up with a fierce lineup of juice from Central Coast California producer Qupé- I decided I wanted to write about Roussanne.

Why? Because it's the jam. And it needs some publicity (particularly Qupé's masterpiece: a prototype of the difficult balance between fruit, acid, oak, and alcohol).

Before I go completely off the rails, here are some basics: Roussanne is a wine grape that hails from the Rhône valley of France (which basically starts south of the city of Lyon, thus, the painfully-forced title). In its most-recognizable manipulation from vine to glass, Roussanne makes aromatic, medium-to-full-bodied whites that are somewhat akin to the slightly more-popular wines from Viognier (grape). When being as recognizable as it can be, Roussanne is found in bottles from the appellations of Hermitage (region), Crozes-Hermitage (region), and Saint-Joseph (region) in the Northern Rhône, and most notably in Châteauneuf-du-Pape (region) in the Southern Rhône (where it can be used in both white and red blends labeled as Châteauneuf-du-Pape). The grape is also found in the States, often either blended with Viognier, Marsanne (grape), and/or Grenache Blanc (grape), or sparsely varietally-bottled, as in the case with Qupé.

As I tasted the rich, oaked-but-not-over-oaked nectar, featuring a reasonable alcohol of about 13.5%, and good acidity and fruit, I thought, "Chardonnay lovers would really go for this bugger."

So, I set out on finding the perfect pop-culture metaphor. Due to Roussanne's relative obscurity among the palates of most folks, I had to go with a "diamond in the rough" angle. Maybe a rock band that was awesome but never quite made it?

No, I needed something with more T&A (perhaps I've been reading too much Samantha Sans Dosage). And is there anything more (or less) deceptive than the Hollywood typecast of the weird/artsy/misunderstood/nerdy chick who is actually super-hot under all that frumpy flannel and vision correction? With that, the haphazard search began...

Velma Dinkley from Scooby-Doo? Nah. Already used her once. But worth another gander. Perhaps the hottest/nerdiest of them all.

That girl who played the lead character in She's All That? No. Not even Roussanne is obscure enough to be compared currently to Rachel Leigh Cook. Plus, even a brief mention of the movie She's All That would imply that I've seen She's All That...

...dammit. Anyway, Rachel, or Rachel Leigh, I'll come calling when we write a post about Rhoditis or something. Damn, that's some bad wine grape humor. Er, moving on:

What about Lisa "Boof" Marconi, from Teen Wolf? Had some potential, extraordinarily frumpy, and not exactly the popular girl. I seemed to be on the right track, but in my chaotic brainstorm, the clouds parted, and I realized my sophomoric quest for sex appeal had shrouded the clearest metaphor of all:

Roussanne is a teenage werewolf. A teenage werewolf played by actor Michael J. Fox in a hit 1985 film. And here's why:

Roussanne is volatile: Scott Howard's father- Harold- learned to control the wolf. Scott himself was still a little off-the-handle. Any vineyard manager with a field full of Roussanne has to have a little Harold Howard in him/her as well. The grape is known to ripen unevenly, yield irregularly, and is susceptible to the ravages of wind and powdery mildew. However, for the intrepid souls who succeed in hedging these risks and wrangling the wolf, payoff is inevitable.

This unassuming grape has some serious game: Scott Howard- the basketball player- had heart, and was an adequate court general, yet lacked size and ability. When Scott unleashed the wolf, he because a human (canine?) highlight reel. Under the proper circumstances, Roussanne can also unleash some wolf, bringing incredible aromas, power, body, and acidic balance. There's a reason why Qupé's varietally-bottled Roussanne sells for $40.

Roussanne has always been "in" among the "out" crowd: Boof had undying love for Scott Howard, wolf or not. Intuitive guys like me just notice these things. She was like a wine nerd, going the distance to show affection for a soul outside the realm of widespread popularity. When I get together with my fellow geeks (we're talking some folks who have an unhealthy zeal for wine), a bottle of white Hermitage is greeted with extraordinary reverence. 'Tis often not the case in most other crowds...

Roussanne has some really stylish friends: when blended into "Rhône-style" blends, Roussanne is found mingling with other top-notch grapes like Viognier, Grenache Blanc, Marsanne, Picpoul, etc. At least a few of these deserve there own posts as well. Either that, or I really wanted an excuse to feature the picture to the left. Oh Styles, we hardly knew ye.

So, the next time some friends want to get together and have some booze, seek out a bottle of Roussanne. When your friends say, "what the hell is Roussanne?," you can reply, "Roussanne is the teenage werewolf of wines." Then, when they look at you like you're crazy, you can simply say, "what are you looking at, dicknose?"Get past the heated exchange, and I promise a well-made bottle will make them all happy. Even dicknose. But not happy about his nose. That seems like something that would make me pretty grumpy, too.

Mondays make me so steamed.

2011-06-06T00:00:00.001-04:00

Used to be, come mid-afternoon on a Sunday, I'd be able to tuck into writing a couple posts for the coming week. One day of hardcore hunting-and-pecking, and some family time the rest of the week. It freed me up to go to bed at decent hours and surf the web for pictures of sharks with human teeth.

Lately, for whatever reason, getting a Monday post out is an exercise in futility. Maybe if I wasn't busy galavanting around on Saturday nights like a European playboy, I'd have some time to finish copious chores early and get to writing in a timely fashion.

The rub is that the Monday post is critical. Many Loverboy fans are reluctantly slogging back to the office, and the only thing that can get them through the morning is strong coffee and doing anything to avoid actual work. Blogs and Bow Man 2 fit this profile swimmingly.

Alas, I'm trying to figure this out. There's got to be a solution I can muster.

I wonder if the devil could write me a hit Monday post...

Will Ferrell writes a song for garth brooks - Watch more Funny Videos

Great Innovations in Culinary Technology

2011-06-03T00:21:00.008-04:00

The cast iron skillet is a miracle.

Wanna disagree? I'll bludgeon you with my cast iron skillet.

Nah, I wouldn't do that, but I'd force you to cook you steak on a grill. Listen, I like the ol' hibachi as much as the next overhyped Food Network star, but when it's 96 degrees outside, this guy's gonna sweat his arse off in style: in front of the range (sweat courtesy of a bad diet and lack of exercise, not heat).

Plus, when's the last time you got a silly grill to do this?:

That's the evidence of a Maillard reaction, holmes, and the crispity brown crust means flavor country.

Throw in a fine red wine, like this 2007 Swanson Oakville Merlot [disclosure: sample fairy left this for me], and things get really saucy. Many Merlots are known to be very soft and plush and fruity. The higher-quality juice often comes with a little more tannic grip (and that can be a good thing with steak), so it fits the bill like something that would fit perfectly on the bill (sorry, metaphorical acumen is pretty disastrous right now).

Eureka! A meal fit for an awfully lazy post.

The Way We Were

2011-06-01T22:06:00.007-04:00

No rapture last week, but is it a sign of the Apocalypse that I'm posting a pic of Barbra Streisand on the blawg? Nah, I was just reminiscing about the way we were... that is to say, the memories. That's what we have on Memorial Day, right? And, as I wage war with an unbeatable foe- named "acceptance"- over the rapid deforestation of my scalp, thinking about "the way we were" spurred me to splice in a pic of myself, back in the days of glorious hair. This gambit would furthermore prevent me just posting a straight-up pic of Barbra, which would relegate this wine blog to the equally-overcrowded-and-unpleasant realm of Streisand-fan blogs.

As I was saying: memories. Memorial Day is ideally about paying respect to those who have fought and died for our freedom. However, to more than a few of us, Memorial Day is about eating meats, drinking booze, and recalling the debauchery of Memorial Day weekends past. As the great Jay Thomas said on his SiriusXM radio show, "there's probably some guy in a trench thinking, 'I hope those [expletive] back home are enjoying their ribs.'"

As for this past Sunday (spilling into Monday), I do recall several memories of the purely civilian nature... that is to say, gluttonous ones. Alas, this is the way we were, Memorial Day, 2011:

- I can't wait to make the Lemon Confit from Francis Mallman's ridiculous cookbook, The Seven Fires. Yes, I made Lemon Confit... mostly. Then I never got around to finishing it. Then I threw it away. Nincompoop!

- Ghee (clarified butter) + Lemon Juice + Chicken Stock + Garlic Powder makes an exceptional injection for chicken. Also a great mouthwash, mixer, gargle, bathing liquid, intravenous injection.

-A bottle of Vinho Verde goes down way too easily on a warm day. Yeah, I was inside at the time, comforted by air conditioning, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a scorcher outside, where I was not... ... ... work with me here.

- (not gluttony-related) My daughter looks so stinkin' cute in her bee bathing suit. Cue Blind Melon's "No Rain", please.

- When roasting a chicken, Rosé does the trick. You know, to drink while the chicken is roasting. It's also good with the chicken. As is Oregon Pinot Noir (Bergström delivered the goods this day), and especially White Burgundy (made from Chardonnay). Olivier Leflaive's "Les Sétilles" (a blend of grapes from Puligny-Montrachet and Meursault) is a ridiculous value for you Chard lovers for under $20.

- Ever dipped beef jerky into guacamole? Get ready to live, kemosabe.

- My next door neighbor has started experimenting with homemade hard cider. It's certainly not bad. Next time, I won't throw him under the bus by breaking out two bottles of Diane Flynt's incredible Foggy Ridge Cider from Virginia after tasting his efforts. Diane had nothing to do with getting me these bottles. If you in Virginia, buy some. Or do something illegal. We'll never know which route I took.

In retrospect, and in homage to the post title, I probably should've set the day's compilation video to the song "Barbra Streisand", by Duck Sauce. But this was a day for fowl of a different feather, and duck sauce has no place in the presence of chicken.

Ah, the memories...

Booze in the News - May 27, 2011

2011-05-27T00:30:00.000-04:00

Avoiding the Rapture since 2010.

Snooze in the News: A Delaware man is really bad at burgling. But awfully good at drinking. Bradley M. Furchak is currently being held at Sussex Correctional after a Long Neck, Delaware woman awoke to find her house broken into, and the alleged perpetrator snoring on her couch, having consumed several beers from her own supply. When voice-threatened, Furchak- despite his lapse in stealing judgement- had the wherewithal to hang on to one of the beers as he fled the scene. He was soon after taken into custody, where he was quickly sobered to the crushing fact that he lived in Delaware.

105 in the pink: When most of us think of pink wine, a $2.95 bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill comes to mind. Or perhaps Sutter Home White Zinfandel, if you last name happens to be Rockefeller. So imagine is someone took that money out of the mason jar you'd been saving to visit Branson and blew it on one bottle of pink wine? It's feasible. Badass blogger Katie of Gonzo Gastronomy recently delineated the latest from Provence's Château D'Esclans: a bottle of rosé retailing for $105. Sure, it's small production. Yeah, it's complex. Of course it's produced by son-of-wine-royalty Sacha Lichine. But you know what's it's not? 34 bottles of Strawberry Hill. And when Molly Hatchet is busy flirtin' with disaster through the blown-out speakers in your Trans-Am, you know you can't drink just one.

Going Commando: True, sometimes alcohol leads to lewd and destructive behavior. Governator, we saw the writing on the wall years ago...

It's not like you're looking very badass anyway.

2011-05-26T00:13:00.001-04:00

When the girl driving the refreshment cart regretfully informed us that she was all out of Bud Light Lime, we lamented in only having chilled white wine to drink...

That, and a few errant "regular" Bud Lights, like Bud Light Lime for those who don't give a damn about the dangers of scurvy.

Needless to say, sipping crisp white and drinking flavored malt beverages does little to toughen the already lily-livered image of golf. I honestly feel the need to bite the cork out of a dusty bottle of whiskey from unknown providence, slug it down, punch a bandito in the face, shoot some guy on a balcony so that he falls through a cheaply-constructed banister, then line up that 14-footer with a slight right-to-left break.

All that being said, I do enjoy me some golf, and whiskey neat makes a terrible thrist-quencher on a 90 degree South Carolina day under the oppressive anger of the sun. But a chilled, slightly effervescent Vinho Verde does wonders.

This "green" wine- named for its youth rather than it's color- hails from the Minho region in northern Portugal. It's made from a variety of nearly 20 grapes, and- as the name suggests- it's built to drink young. Practically a watered-down vodka tonic, the citrusy, minerally, low-alcohol tipple is mighty refreshing, and is tailor-made to slake the thirst of parched golfers. That being said, duffers should be tilting those bottles with prudence, as Vinho Verde tees off with around 9-10% ABV. Granted, while this is very low by wine standards, it's pretty much like sipping some of the strongest beer around...

...yet that buzz may be critical, because you- the golfer- are likely walking around in ridiculous garb.

Damn, golfers are comfortable in their own skin.

Listen, once one is dressed like a circus clown in public, there should be no more insecurity about anything else. So next time the course is sold out of Bud Light Lime, reach for a bottle of chilled Vinho Verde you've cleverly stashed in one of those random pockets in the golf bag. Why not? The desire for Bud Light Lime is a clear indication that you don't give a damn about looking tough drinking to compensate for the not-toughness of your alleged sport. And it tastes good.

And drink it straight from the bottle. Because you already look like a buffoon.

Teaching Wine?

2011-05-25T00:12:00.000-04:00

It ain't rocket science. Unless we make it so.

Like a tortoise trying to teach snails how to sprint, I undertook my first crack at hosting a wine tasting for a group of locals about a week and a half ago. For this guy, it was an absolute joy. From picking out wines, conjuring up pairings, building tasting sheets, and maps, and powerpoint presentations...

...I'm a nerd. And I would enjoy doing none of this for the day job. Alas, heating and air conditioning lack the sex appeal of fine wine.

But it was all an undeniable labor of unconditional love, and I hope the crowd had half the fun I did slinging it all together.

Yet, while I encourage wine be used for fun more than anything else, there is a burning desire within my evangelical spirit to have taught something. I really hope that insight was gained, perceptions were shattered, and at least one participant was left with a need to learn more about the fermented grape. There exists a seemingly endless universe of new and different within the world's bottles... how could I not want someone else to join in the exploration?

My hopes- however- are far from a slam dunk. Like so many first dates, rambling jokes, and (needless to say) blog posts, I may have veered toward over-complication, muddying what would've been a good thing- if I had kept it simple. The battle has long-raged that blogs have come to "democratize" wine, bringing it to the masses. Blogs and bloggers are releasing what is, essentially, a food product from the snobby vice-grip of the old guard's obscure tasting notes and arbitrary scoring systems. Or at least that's one side of the debate.

Conversely, others argue that a total dumbing-down of the curriculum will, in no way, benefit those who thirst for vinous knowledge.

Honestly, I think there's a place for both opinions.

The bottom line is that wine education needs to match the knowledge and desire of the audience. And, thankfully, my group was gracious enough to give me some pointers, as I am neither a polished individual nor above constructive criticism:

1) For the most part, assumptions are bad. The geek-set can get caught up in what it sees as commonplace, but may be voodoo to others. I was asked to explain the methodology of tasting (why the swirling? the sniffing? the swishing around in the mouth?). All great points that I will be sure to address at the next one.

2) Didn't think folks would want to take notes. I wrote off the event as a social gathering. I was pleased to hear that some wished they had a way to jot down tidbits of knowledge. I was equally displeased that I was too ham-handed to provide at least some bits of graphite to let the crowd scribble. Point taken.

3) I think visual aides are good. While no one wants to see another damn powerpoint while not at the office, it can be tricky to explain where Rias Baixas lies on a map. So, when you think you're clever and create such slides, make sure the projector works. D'oh.

All that said, I think there were some breakthroughs. Vinho Verde slapped thoughts of what an $8 wine can be right in the chops. Tavel rosé shocked much of the crowd when it tasted nothing like White Zinfandel.

Ultimately, wine had resulted in good conversation, conviviality, and merrymaking. It had brought the crowd together. Even if that's all that happened at this event, then I consider it a rousing success.

But for future events, I'll know to cover the basics, the geeky, and make sure that I'm doing my due-diligence to advance knowledge, without perpetuating the cryptic nature of wine.

That's assuming there are future events. And assumptions, as already noted, are generally bad.

So What?? So Let's Dance!

2011-05-20T06:00:00.000-04:00

I've skipped town to go golfing with the boys. Obviously, our golf trips end up exactly like this scene from Caddyshack. And for the record, our excursions NEVER end up like ANY scene from Caddyshack 2. For shame, Caddyshack 2. Replacing Rodney Dangerfield with Jackie Mason is like replacing the venerable Dr. Vino with... me.

In lieu of the conventional cold beer on the course this year, I'll be cracking some Vinho Verde to see if it refreshes and simultaneously improves/deteriorates my golf game the way only cold beer previously could.

Ever taken some wine out on the golf course? What'd you bring, and did it work?

The Pairing Conundrum, part 2 (of... well, how many sequels did "Police Academy" have?)

2011-05-19T00:10:00.000-04:00

For the record (and for the sake of continuity), this post was supposed to go out last Friday, hot on the heels of "The Pairing Conundrum, part 1", a meandering, bloviated monologue on how to make your food taste better, your wine taste better, and your food & wine taste better together. There were more points to make, but- as I said- things got wordy.

Alas, stars were crossed that day. A now-infamous Blogger crash led into a day planning for a wine tasting, a day prepping for and executing a wine tasting dinner, a trip to Dahlonega wine country, and some other flotsam and jetsam that threw my noble intentions way off-course.

I apologize, and I'll make the excuse that Blogger backed me up horribly. It's not a good excuse, but it sure is a textbook example of passing the buck. On with the show...

I hope you've never heard it this way before: wine pairing is like a Liger. Take one majestic creature, the Lion (aka, "food", or perhaps the "mane" course... I immediately regret saying that). Put it together with a beautiful and cryptic beast, the Tiger (a metaphor for wine... misunderstood, powerful, and beautiful).

A perfect wine and food pairing becomes the Liger, a transcendental beast of the animal kingdom. Yeah, I agree it's perhaps the worst metaphor yet, but when's the next time I'm gonna get to talk about Ligers? You've gotta work with me here. And how could I not post that pic? Prize for the best caption...

Anyhow, I mentioned a couple pairing tips last week, and I wanted to continue with some more, but I'll do them one at a time (with total disregard to timeliness or continuity), because I really do talk too much:

Do you like red meat, and to hell with what your doctor says? Get on the good foot with tannins. I need to study more food science. I've heard it a million times. I've read it a million times. But I haven't seen a good explanation of the chemistry behind why red meat and tannic red wines go so well together. Either that, or I'm too lazy to really research it at the Charlie Sheen-ish hours when I write these posts.

All I know is that red meat is very high in protein. This is due to the fact that it (beef, lamb, duck, etc.) is comprised of slow-twitch muscle, which is used for long, extended periods of activity. For that reason, slow-twitch muscle must be high in myoglobin- a protein that stores plenty of oxygen to fuel these hard-working fibers. Myoglobin is reddish in color, so that's why red meat looks bloody (it isn't bloody bloody, by the way). But, clearly, this stuff is very high in protein, because of the myoglobin. So, there's part one.

Some red wines are high in tannin. Tannins are phenolic compounds from the skins, seeds, and stems of wine grapes. There are more tannins in red skins, so red wines tend to be more tannic. This is especially true for thick-skinned grapes, like Cabernet Sauvignon, Tannat, etc. When the juice is in contact with those big, fat casings during fermentation, the phenolic tannins are extracted into the wine. Winemakers can also add tannin to a wine by adding stems to the fermentation, or by aging in new oak barrels (as oak contains tannins). However, for the purposes of this stinkin' post, lets just say it the skin's the thing.

So, you've got a myoglobin-laden piece of meat and a heavily-extracted Cabernet Sauvignon. They're going to go great together because...uh, because the internet says so. Supposedly, tannins bind to the proteins in meat and make those proteins more flavorful. Likewise, the proteins supposedly soften the tannins, making them less astringent and more smooth. I don't know how this works, but I do know one thing: red meat and heavy red wine sure are tasty together. Next time you see your pimp and bring home beef steak or lamb, try a Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Nebbiolo-based wine, or Tannat (looks for producers from Uruguay or Madiran in France for these massive wines). Oh, and there's some Tannat grown in Georgia, too. Boomshakalaka.

As an added bonus, phenolic compounds contain lots of antioxidants, so tell your doc you'll only eat that terrible red meat with lots and lots of booze...

...you know, for your health.

The Pairing Conundrum, part 1 (of many?)

2011-05-11T22:15:00.000-04:00

Wine blogs address the concept of pairing wine with food as ESPN approaches Yankees vs. Red Sox, or as James Suckling discusses his home in Tuscany: on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on (for accuracy's sake, I need to type it some more) and on and on and on and on (okay, point made sophomorically).

-on and on and on-

The debate arguing wine and food goes back to Roman times, leading to the creation of the phrase, ad nauseam. But surely there's an explanation for all the tiresome discussion. Is it because drinking alcohol leads to diarrhea of the mouth (that is to say, lively discussion), and eventually to hunger, which leads to late-night junk food, that leads to... [awkward pause]?

In my opinion, which you're gonna get whether you like it or not, the reason for all the discussion is because it's a subject that's hotly debated, and that generates opinions, interest, and talk. Wine pairing is rooted in a practice that can either elevate both the food and the wine to new, ethereal heights, or it can decisively ruin both.

The balancing act is like concocting a hit early-80's sitcom. Combine the gruff, cantankerous comedic stylings of a Ted Knight with the lovable buffoonery of a hapless, effeminate Jim J. Bullock, and the pairing soars on the wings of Too Close for Comfort into the hallowed halls of television lore.

Conversely, if the pairing creates tension and disharmony, things go totally awry, and you end up with the doomed Homeboys in Outer Space (thanks TV Crunch for the inspirato on that one).

Here's the rub: everyone has different tastes. Just like what might resonate with television audiences, some pairings are going to work on paper (Homeboys in Outer Space is clearly a hilarious concept), but they just don't cut the mustard at the dinner table, or when the Nielson ratings are published. Ultimately, we're all individuals, and we all like what we like, so hitting a home run every time is like James Suckling not mentioning that he lives in Tuscany... probably ain't gonna happen.

I'm wrestling with this neurosis now, as I'll be hosting a wine pairing dinner for a large group on Saturday. I keep changing things up, overanalyzing, and researching the best matches. I know what I like, but will the crowd follow suit?

Fortunately, wine pairing doesn't have to be pure voodoo. There are some basic, food-science concepts that can be employed to hedge your pairings, increasing the odds of success. I'm gonna cover a couple here, then do a couple more in another post, because I both need more blog fodder, and this is a topic that causes bluster and filibustering (as I alluded to earlier):

1. Acid is good: wines with higher acidity stimulate one of the primary senses of the tongue, giving the sensation of the palate being cleansed. Furthermore, like squeezing lemon onto a bland piece of fish, some acidity can enhance the flavors of many foods. Acidic wines can usually stand up to tough-to-pair acidic foods (like a vinaigrette, for example), and they're great with fatty dishes, as fat can coat the palate, and the wine seems to clean things up for the next bite.

There are a few tricks to picking out a high acid wine. Knowing which grapes have naturally high acidity (Riesling, Sauvignon Blanc, Pinot Noir, Sangiovese, etc.) is one way. Understanding cooler climate growing regions can also help. Grapes don't ripen as much in these cooler climates, leaving more acidity in the fruit. Another good tip is to check the alcohol level on the bottle. Lower alcohol (roughly, below 13%) is a pretty good indicator that the wine still has some dialed-down pH. This has to do with the fact that- as grapes ripen- acids decrease and sugars increase in the fruit. Sugar is converted into alcohol during fermentation, ergo, more sugar, more alcohol, less acid (provided there's no manipulation, which is another post).

2. When things get spicy, sugar and fruit are good, but alcohol is not: a little sweetness can temper the heat of spicy foods, and even dry wines that are very fruit-forward can fight the good fight, as fruitiness can be perceived by the palate as sweetness. However, the latter can be tricky, as dry, fruity wines often are the product of very ripe grapes, which means there was a lot of sugar during fermentation, (generally) equating to higher alcohol. High alcohol turns spice into straight-up HOT, burning the throat and killing all flavors. If you need proof, make yourself a Prairie Fire shot and see what happens.

For all these reasons, most German Spätlese and Auslese Rieslings do wonders with buffalo wings and Popeye's chicken. They are usually around 8% alcohol, with some residual sugar in the final wine. Furthermore, Riesling is naturally very high in acidity, so that jives with the tasty fats in fried poultry bits (see reason #1).

I'll have a list of what I'm pairing with what for Saturday's tasting on the Suburban Wino Facebook page. Please stop by and let me know you opinions. I'm open to suggestions, but I already have all the wines, so wiggle-room is limited.

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Bubbles alone do not a Champagne make.

2011-05-10T00:54:00.002-04:00

Looking at the title of this post, my grammar has devolved to Yoda-esque sentence structure. Perhaps I'm quickly becoming a shriveled wine curmudgeon, relegated to cryptic tidbits on the fermented grape, designed to put frustrated winos on the path to righteousness.

Or, maybe there's wisdom in the header; a critical piece of knowledge that fledgling wine-Jedis must heed in order to restore balance to the vinous Force...

Probably the former, but bear with me here, because what I'm about to say is very important:

NOT ALL SPARKLING WINE IS CHAMPAGNE.

Please, repeat this statement again, as I didn't hear you the first time with this ridiculous Yoda hat covering my ears.

NOT ALL SPARKLING WINE IS CHAMPAGNE.

One more time, because I can hear someone out there calling a bottle of Tott's Brut "Champagne", and my blood is about to boil (cementing the preceding suspicion that I have- indeed- become a wine curmudgeon).

NOT ALL SPARKLING WINE IS CHAMPAGNE.

I really need to quit being a jerk about it and put some explanation behind the mantra, because we've probably all been conditioned to think otherwise. "Champagne" is not necessarily a style of wine. However, it is a wine. A French sparkling wine from the region of Champagne, to be more specific.

The French- generally speaking- are really hung up on sense of place. They feel that a wine should speak to where it comes from: the vine configuration, the soil composition, the slope upon which it is planted, the orientation towards the sun, the climate, and the surrounding geography and geology. For the French, this terroir (basically translating to all that stuff I described) is what one should smell, taste, and feel when enveloped by a great wine, so much more so than the grape from which it is made. To this end, the wines of France have traditionally been labeled by places, rather than by grape varieties. Bordeaux is a region, not a grape or necessarily a style. Burgundy is a region. Champagne- not so coincidentally- is also a region.

Situated in the northeastern part of Gaul (I'm scratching for synonyms for "France" at this point), the Champagne-Ardenne region is subjected to a rather cool climate, producing grapes (mainly Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, and Pinot Meunier) with lower sugar levels and higher acidity. These grapes produce wines of extraordinary freshness, and the addition of bubbles only amplifies the palate-cleansing sensation of Champagne. And how do those bubbles get there? A secondary fermentation in the sealed bottles create yeasts' two primary byproducts- alcohol and carbon dioxide. The latter contributes to the fizz. Check this out if you want to learn more about production methods (there are several), as I have trouble keeping it brief.

Any other sparklers not produced in the Champagne region of France are simply not "Champagne". Disagree? Tough shit. Blame terroir.

That being said (quite crudely, for emphasis and questionable comedic value), some would want to fool you. Many California producers (Korbel, Cook's, and formerly Paul Masson, for example) listed "Champagne" on the bottles for years. The French sought to protect the name, and made treaties a few decades ago to only allow bottles from Champagne to be labeled "Champagne". However, a deal was struck to allow a few producers in California to keep the name, as long as bottles were labeled as "California Champagne". Confusing, ridiculous, and perpetuating the cryptic nature of wine in general, in this guy's opinion.

Despite not leveraging the marketing clout of some famous dirt, there are many excellent sparkling wines produced outside of Champagne that are worth a try. This is especially true when considering that the real stuff usually fetches a pretty hefty price, thanks mostly to marketing and rap videos. But lets say you're name isn't Skee Lo, and you just want a mimosa to get your Tuesday morning started. Surely something more affordable is out there:

Crémants: French sparkling wines made outside of Champagne are called "Crémant de [region]". So a bubbler from Burgundy would be Crémant de Bourgogne, from the Loire would be Crémant de Loire, and Alsace would be Crémant d'Alsace, and so on. They are all generally made in the "Champagne method" (secondary fermentation in the bottle), and offer good value and interesting flavor profiles, as all are made from the allowable grapes of their respective regions. Also sometimes called Mousseux.

Cava: the sparkling wine of Spain is generally made from the Parellada, Macabeo, and Xarel-lo grapes (and increasingly, Chardonnay). They are also made in the traditional method (aka "Champagne Method"), and offer ridiculous value, usually going off shelves for under $10.

Prosecco: an inexpensive and pleasing Italian sparkler, made from the Glera grape.

Sekt: German bubbly, often made in the Charmat method, meaning secondary fermentation occurs in large stainless-steel tanks, and then that wine is bottled under pressure to keep the bubbles from escaping.

Cap Classique: South African sparklers made in the traditional method.

American Sparkling Wine: avoid the cheap stuff (think college headaches) and search for producers who make quality wines in the traditional method. Some easy-to-find bottlings include Domaine Carneros, Domaine Chandon, Gloria-Ferrer, Gruet (from New Mexico!), Iron Horse, J Vineyards, Piper-Sonoma, Roederer Estate, Scharffenberger, and Schramsberg (among others). Many are owned by French Champagne houses, so they try to keep with the same level of quality.

...

...glad I got that off my chest. I don't mean to get feisty about it. Sometimes, there's just an ax to grind.

Or maybe it's a lightsaber.

Hazy and Busted in the Second City

2011-05-05T00:00:00.004-04:00

Last time I was in Chicago was 1989. I was 10 years old, preferred dinosaurs to baseball, McDonald's to Portillo's, and chocolate milk to Burgundy (I credit good parenting for that last one).

To me, the Second City was a giant lake, a tall building named after the store where my parents sourced me burlap-like "Toughskins" jeans, a cool museum full of prehistoric bones, and a boring visit to my mother's great-aunt's 90th birthday party (but I suppose 10-year-olds and 90-year-olds just don't mix). I had no idea what wonders Chicago had to offer an adult. Particularly one with a penchant for cocktails and low-density lipoproteins.

It is a big city of friendly folks (like Manhattan with good, Midwestern sensibilities), yet the city center seems condensed. I felt I could walk everywhere, and everywhere is flat. Which is needed, as the rest of one's time can best be passed gorging like Joey Chestnut in training. In more flattering words, Chicago's food scene is incredible. Again, it's a walkable, flat city, that's chilly and on the water, and full of amazing food. I'd make the shoddy metaphor that Chicago is San Francisco for people who think hills are stupid and tiring, sans Nancy Pelosi, plus even shadier politics.

Those not insecure about looking like tourists can indulge in the fire-kissed delights of the Weber Grill, a restaurant that employs real charcoal kettles indoors, and probably a few carbon monoxide monitors as well. You can call me a tourist all you want, as long as your shoving pretzel rolls with cheddar-butter in front of my face- the perfect prelude to juicy cheeseburgers (here's where the metaphor dies: Midwestern dietary philosophy takes a MASSIVE detour from that of Northern California. I swear these people do not give a f**k about what goes into their bodies. And that's coming from a deep-fried Southerner. I mean, cheddar-butter?!).

Speaking on bad eating habits, "dragged through the garden" Chicago-style dogs (left), juicy, grilled onion-slathered Polish sausages, unbelievably heavy deep-dish pizza, and "beefs" (Italian beef sandwiches) pepper the landscape of the Windy City, offering delicious, affordable junk food to all with complete disregard for doctors' orders. Portillo's, Gino's East, Mr. Beef, and an outpost of Al's Beef (among other tasty culinary disasters) sit within a few blocks of each other. Conveniently, a Walgreen's sits central to all of these places, making multiple runs for Rolaids and Lipitor manageable.

But there's more to Chicago than stuff that tastes particularly good at 3 AM. Frontera Grill lives up to the hype for Mexican-lovers. Bartender Mike is whipping up some ridiculous old-school cocktails like Sazeracs and Negronis at Sable. We also (of course) found ourselves in unbelievably unique wine-and-food meccas like Pops for Champagne (an all-sparkling wine bar... insane), The Bluebird, and the Purple Pig (perhaps my new favorite place on planet Earth). These spots featured what I consider the calling card of good wine lists: tons of stuff I've never seen before. As much as so many places want to sell me Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay for five times the retail price at the Piggly Wiggly next door, I really appreciate the extra effort when a restaurant's list is unique and interesting. And I'll probably spend more money, wanting to try new things (which happened. Ouchie.)

More than the the food and the drink, though, we had the incredible pleasure of tilting some glasses with Atlanta friends Capo and Jess (pictured right, as Capo blesses an absurd amount of pork product at The Pig), who happened to be in town. Furthermore (thanks to Twitter), I was able to connect with local winos Mike T, Douglas, Sasha, and one of my favorite (former for the most part, now that he's "in the business") bloggers, the excitable Sam Klingberg of Broke Wino fame. I continue to be impressed by the folks I meet in-person, with whom I initially connected online. Anyone who says social media is anti-social is a buffoon. I can pretty much go to any city in the U.S., and there'll be someone there to introduce me to a terrific local hangout, assuaging my insecurity about looking like a tourist (huge camera-in-tow notwithstanding).

Like any big, hip city, a drink runs about $9-13. And there are lots of nice restaurants who prey on the business-dinner crowd. If you come to visit (and you should), bring some papers, or a high-limit credit card. Chicago ain't cheap, but it sure is fun. I ran like I was still in my 20's, and I woke up like I was not in my 20's. But I had a blast doing it and can't wait to get back. Granted, it will probably be with the kid(s), so wine bars and mixologists will have to wait.

Good thing I still like dinosaurs and McDonald's.

Announcement: Headed to Chicago

2011-04-28T00:44:00.003-04:00

Steve Cropper and Matt "Guitar" Murphy will not be there with me.

However, I'm taking a few days off (and a few days w/ JUST the wife... first time since June of last year) to head up to the city of many of my roots; yet, a place I haven't visited in 22 years. That is to say, visited as an adult.

I'll be pretty busy getting the band back together, high-fiving Andre Dawson, eating Italian beef sammiches, singing "Danke Schoen" in a flash mob-like German parade, foiling the Wet Bandits, designated-driving Jay Cutler, eating beef in non-sammich form, and having a drink... or more than one (sorry Jay Cutler... I'm sure you can intercept another designated driver).

Because of all this, there will be no blogging for the rest of the week. However, I'll be banging around the Twitters a bit, I'm sure. Will probably scare up some Windy City wine geeky folks as well.

If there's a place I need to go while up there ('til Sunday), drop it in the comments. If you drop it like it's hot, make sure to give me fair warning.

Burgertime

2011-04-26T23:28:00.004-04:00

Just a few shots from a recent burger grind. I simply bought a ribeye steak and made it into hamburger. Some would say this is a waste of a good steak, but I argue it's the makings of a tasty grind... if only I hadn't overcooked the damn thing. Luckily, it was only slightly, and the ample fat kept it moist.

Paired that sucker up with the 2008 Tribute to Grace Grenache. Yowza. Hard to get, but try to get some.

Local Homebrewer makes good

2011-04-25T22:20:00.001-04:00

I love to drink locally. When one lives in a part of the world not adjacent to a deluge of jaw-dropping wine, "drinking locally" often means drinking beer...

...provided one doesn't reside in an Amish community. In which case, "drinking locally" would involve a taste of Goody Smythe's freshly-churned buttermilk. 'Tis a fortifying buttermilk that puts a good start to a day of hand-crafting rocking chairs and those dancing wooden puppets on sticks.

Fortunately, Atlanta is not very Amish, and there's plenty of good local beer. Terrapin, Sweetwater, and Red Brick get most of the accolade, with smaller operations like 5 Seasons Brewing and Wild Heaven more-than-nobly filling in the gaps.

Whenever I hear of a new Atlanta brewing operation, I get geeked up, and I kick wine to the curb (Don't worry, wine. I'm a fickle bitch). Furthermore, when I find out the guy behind the new local beer was just a home brewer making some great suds, I decide I need to meet that person. Or at least take a picture of him to paste creepily on the mirror of my personal home brewing dungeon:

Randy Dempsey is the mad genius behind O'Dempsey's beer. Okay, he's not very mad at all. Rather, a quite friendly chap who loves talking about beer and hockey (clearly, not originally from Atlanta). Basically, the guy had been home brewing forever, and someone finally convinced him to go pro. I'd much rather you read the story here than allow me to skewer it with obscure tangents, as is my modus operandi.

I got to taste a couple of Randy's beers a week ago along with some cheese at Muss & Turner's. My doctor told me specifically to stay away from 1. Beer and 2. Cheese. But he's probably an idiot.

Disclosure: the nice folks at Muss & Turner's either comped me this beer/cheese tasting, or I stole it. Not really sure. I had come there originally for other reasons, and then I guess my charisma took over. Or, I dined and dashed. So, either 'thanks' or 'sorry' to Jessica Moss, the charming M&T's beer nerd.

O'Dempsey's Big Red Ale was a far cry from what one usually gets from fledgling brewers- that is to say, Pale Ale. I was pleased to discover that it smelled similar to a batch of beer I made once. While most brewers should take offense to this comment, it was a pretty good batch. Deus ex machina, I suppose. But I'm sure Randy knew what he was doing. The Big Red- as I said, unlike a Pale Ale- was more malty than hoppy, and ready for a burger. Went well with some of the cheeses, too. If you took a burger and put blue cheese on it, then drank some of Randy's Big Red Ale, you'd be in a situation commonly known as "flavor country'. It's a country that has no rules, smells wonderful, and makes you fat. Like the Netherlands without all the patchouli.

Yet, it was this delightful tipple that really got me excited about O'Dempsey's. The Inukshuk IPA (meaning "India Pale Ale", a style popularized by the Brits in the 1800's) delivered the piney, citrusy nose that welcomes all IPA lovers, but it was smooth and totally balanced in the mouth- belying its 7% alcohol content. Sometimes, higher-gravity beers can come off as too sweet or too thick or too alcoholic on the palate. But, like the carefully balanced stones that construct the Inuit statue bearing this beer's namesake, this one was in harmony. If I hadn't had to drive home, I probably would've sipped on these until I was way out of harmony.

The wine bloggers (present company included) like to go all apey about wine and food and the edict that they belong together. I'd defend that notion to the death (actually, I'd probably concede if it came to that), but there's no rule saying beer should only be slugged with nachos and hot dogs and hot dogs with nacho cheese on them. Beer was meant for the dinner table, and Randy Dempsey's offerings fit the menu. Seek them out when you're in Georgia. And you should be in Georgia, because we have good beer.

Snowed In.

2011-04-21T22:49:00.004-04:00

As in, like working into the evening and traveling every night this week. And not to exotic ports-of-call. More like "places where air conditioning is sold and marketed to mechanical contractors."

I'm sitting (okay, I'm lying down for all you sitting snobs) in a hotel in Birmingham, AL, hoping to procure some super-tasty, tiny-production beers from Good People Brewing. Drink this beer if you're ever in North Alabama. And be glad. 'Cause it's very hard to find (perhaps impossible, as I only know of its existence in kegs). More importantly, it's good. But I will be smuggling some back to Atlanta.

I drank some Georgia wine from Blackstock last night. Reserve Merlot. '06, I think. Way better than I expected. And I know they're using 100% Georgia fruit. I was proud of the little guys up North.

Haven't written a "Booze in the News" in forever. I'm pretty sure I would've referenced some people who got drunk and did stupid stuff. Luckily, there's no shortage of nincompoops out there. Nor alcohol. "Booze in the News" will never go obsolete for lack of content, I assure you.

Anyway, hope I can get on the good foot next week. Until then, keep it safe, and keep it sexy.

Pink is Pimp

2011-04-13T21:58:00.000-04:00

In the aftermath of an incendiary tirade berating the awful deficit of wine color-blindness in our culture, I received the following comment from the fine blokes over at Sediment Blog (which you should check out):

Almost hate to ask, but... where do you stand on rosé?

I can understand their meekness. I was on fire. "A madman drunk on adrenaline," my old friend from Arkansas might say. But such a relevant question warranted no apprehension, as the post ignored pink wine: the proverbial pink elephant-in-the-room. And when one is seeing pink elephants, an explanation is often required. "Drunk on adrenaline" is rarely a satisfactory answer.

Pink wine- referred to as "blush" in the 80's and on Franzia boxes, and now going by the more sophisticated name of rosé (accents and italics make anything more cosmopolitan)- gets a real bad rap among folks getting into the fermented grape...

Blame it on a guy named Bob Trinchero. One of the owners of Sutter Home winery in Napa, Trinchero would start making a dry, red Zinfandel wine in 1972. In order to concentrate the must (crushed, fermenting grapes), he would "bleed off" some of the juice (a process known as saignée) , ferment it to dryness, and bottle the pink juice for sale. However, in 1975, Trichero ran into a stuck fermentation with his byproduct, and the sugar just wouldn't ferment out. The brass at Sutter Home decided that they preferred the sweet style, and the infamous "White Zinfandel", as we know it, was born.

Perhaps you're like me. When I was cutting my teeth as a "serious" wine drinker (that moniker has since derailed), I dismissed all pink wine as crap. I decried "sweet" wine as an elixir of the hillbilly. I dismissed anything not red or white as the garbage found in gas stations next to the St. Ides double-deuces.

Maybe you cursed Bob Trinchero for his scourge upon the civilized wine world. And though Trinchero was too busy banging a giant pile of money to hear your lamentations, his Frankenstein-wine set the tone for a rampage against everything that shared it's horrid hue.

All rosé was not only unpalatable, but also the color of a cocktail befitting a bachelorette party, never to be confidently quaffed with the boys. Drinking wine among the beer crowd draws ridicule enough; knocking back something presumably sweet and the color of a Hello Kitty baby backpack... well, there just wasn't swagger to it, right?

Wrong. Hey, I was wrong too. I been there, man (clearly, my new catch-phrase).

We'd gone through life thinking "pink is wimp", not realizing that pink is pimp. Much of it is NOTHING like White Zinfandel (which has its place, too). There are examples that are fresh, vibrant, and acidic. They can be incredible with food. And, when you spill these wines on your 3-piece cotton-candy suit with flamingo derby hat, they don't stain.

I live in the South. And people from the south eat a lot of pork. We especially like to smoke the tasty critters in the summer. So, let's say I'm sitting out on my back porch on a July afternoon, sweating like a hoarder at a garage sale. As good as Pinot Noir is with pulled pork, I'm not reaching for a perspiration-inducing red. I'd like a rosé wine with a slight chill on it. It's got just enough red fruit to sing with that pork, but retains a lightness that gives a good yard beer a run for its money.

Some of the best examples of pink wine come from the Southeastern corner of France. Seek out the wines of Provence, especially the Mourvédre-based wines of Bandol, and- my personal favorite- Grenache-based Tavel from the southern Rhône. These wines tend to be dry, and they promise an unexpected and mighty enjoyable experience, offering aromas that often bely the dryness within the glass. Still not convinced? You can look on the labels and view the alcohol content. If it's hovering around 12% or higher, there's a good chance you're not dealing with anything sweet...

Not that there's anything wrong with that. But- alas- that is another rant, and I don't want to get off-point, as is my M.O. Rather, the time has come to embrace your inner-Huggy Bear and give rosé- the pinkest, pimpest wine of all time- a shot. Sip it from a wine glass if you're really cool. The rest of you insecure jive turkeys can ease into your pink drinkin' with a transitional vessel if necessary:

Or, if you're really slick:

Stop Being a Red Wine Racist

2011-04-10T23:30:00.002-04:00

Is it unbelievably offensive to compare a wine drinker's bugaboo with a despicable social phenomenon that has plagued our nation for centuries? I'm not really sure, but I guess I'm going to find out soon enough.

But, when I have an axe to grind, and my mind's made up on how I'm going to do it, then a picture of that buffoon David Duke in front of a confederate battle flag shouting in log cabin font appears. And I'm pretty sure all racists talk in log cabin font, the most racist of all fonts.

It's nothing new. I hear the "I only drink red wine" proclamation from lots of folks in package stores, at wine tastings, on twitter, etc. I've seen the trends, too. People will start drinking wine; cutting their teeth on Sutter Home White Zinfandel or something like that... chilled, fruity, sweet, and refreshing. I get the appeal. But then, eager to see where it all comes from, someone will take a trip out to Napa or Sonoma or the Willamette Valley. And- with the exception of a few Chardonnays, Sauvignon Blancs, and Pinot Gris here and there- these areas are dominated by dry red wine. Napa Cabernet Sauvignon. Dry Creek Zinfandel. Willamette Pinot Noir. Based on these visits; considering what shows up on the "reserve" tasting lists; seeing which wines go for the prettiest pennies; well, I can deduce how one would build a perception that all the "great" wines are red, and dry. This is not supposition. I've experienced it first-hand. Man, I've been there.

But I didn't go to the extreme. I know folks who take this attitude too far. They consume all these reds, then determine that red wine is the only acceptable answer. Whites are all served too cold and taste like butterscotch and pineapples, right? Why look the fool wasting time with those rotgut bottles when all the true aficionados are sipping on Silver Oak Cab?

Call them elitists. Call them closed-minded. Maybe they're a bit snobby. But I have another way to describe these folks.

They are red wine racists.

I posit that these wine racists choose to avoid whites because they think that white wine is of lower quality. They believe that white wines lack complexity, taste fruity and oaky, come served ice cold, and don't pair well with steak. Essentially, because the ubiquitous California Chardonnay doesn't suit their palates, all white wines are inferior. Okay, I guess this is more "wine stereotyping". But that just doesn't have the inflammatory, yellow-journalistic sizzle that "wine racism" espouses.

It's really a shame that Cali Chardonnay seems to be the far-and-away ambassador of white wines served at popular restaurants, wedding receptions, birthday parties, tailgates, swingers' clubs, Krull conventions, derailed Al-Anon meetings, and pagan goat roastings (I'm more familiar with the first four than the last four). Truth is, there are some many AMAZING white wines out there that should be at least considered by reforming red wine racists. Compound that sentiment when one considers food. Many of the world's white wines offer reasonable alcohol, subtle fruit, and zipping acidity that heightens the flavors of nearly any cuisine:

- Crisp, minerally whites like Muscadet (region name and grape name), Sancerre (region name, grape is Sauvignon Blanc), and Albariño (grape name) will give ice cold beer a serious run for its money when set up with a plate of oysters on the half-shell and some steamed peel-n-eats.

- Beautifully aromatic, insanely acidic Rieslings (grape) work with tons of different foods. Plus, the German examples (especially bottles marked Spätlese or Auslese) often have a bit of sweetness to them. Nothing- and I mean nothing- goes better with spicy food. Hot wings and wine? You damn skippy!

- Gewürztraminer, Torrontés, and Viognier (all grape names) bring some serious sniffin' firepower to the jamboree. These will kick a red wine racist's thought of "what white wine smells and tastes like" on its racist ass.

Hell, even Chardonnay works its way into the game. France kicks out some killer stuff, and the Chablis (add to that oyster list) and other white Burgundies not only destroy a Chardonnay prejudice, but they can also empty a bank account quickly. There's a reason why these wines can be so expensive: because they're the shit. Oh, and some Meursault will pair with that steak just fine.

Let me put it this way: when my friends in high places decide to pull the wine equivalent of "making it rain" by emptying their cellars for guests, the best stuff coming out is almost always top-end white Burgs and German Rieslings. And they've drank it all.

The ugly truth is that racism is widespread. It is ignorant. Racism is illogical. I don't know if it will ever go away, and that's very sad to me. I hope people can someday see beyond historic differences and skin color.

But red wine racism is easily defeated, if these misguided folks will be willing to try something new and look past the color of the grape's skin.

It won't change the world, but it might be the first step towards vinous peace & love.

Inside Jokes.

2011-04-07T23:42:00.004-04:00

So, I spent about 3 hours (when I should have been writing) working on this tonight:

Why? Because I read a hilarious account of a day in the life of a wine retailer (followed by a very important lesson for EVERYONE who likes to drink wine) over at Samantha Sans Dosage today. If you haven't read her blog, Samantha is a brilliant writer and knows a whole lot about wine. If you had to choose between this blog and hers, I'm out of a job...

...and a poor-paying job, at that.

Napa Misses the Mark

2011-04-06T00:00:00.001-04:00

On my first trip to Napa (just about four years ago, to the date), I embraced the valley. It embraced me, planted a warm, sloppy kiss right on my wine-stained lips, and slipped me a little tongue-

Granted, I still had some hair on my head back then, and I was benefitting from a post-wedding build, necessary to wedge myself into the big day's tuxedo. Perhaps Napa couldn't resist-

But my (swiftly) fading looks are inconsequential. The point is that the Napa Valley- it's wines, it's sweeping vistas, and it's intoxicating charm- got my panties in a wad. I had no idea wine of such quality existed. Like being ensnared in an awkward teenage infatuation, I'd fallen in love with, become obsessed with, the fermented grape. And like any first kiss, particularly if it was shockingly good, my experience in Napa has imprinted my soul and changed my life forever.

So, any time I hear of friends or neighbors heading out for the first time, I get a little geeked up. I become a pro bono travel agent. I send emails documenting places to visit that make my longest ramblings here seem shorter than Charlie Sheen tweets (and the emails are twice as maniacal). I get into this frenzy because I can't wait for others to experience what I did. "They'll finally get it," I think. "They'll understand why I'm psychotic. They may come home psychotic, too. We can be psychotic together."

Yet, when folks return and tell me they have "no desire to go back to Napa", I'm admittedly a bit taken aback. A lot taken aback, and that's a ton, because I'm not even sure what that saying means. Naturally, I'm inclined to pry.

My neighbors just got back from a trip, and they felt that everything was very expensive. Yes, Napa can be expensive. They mentioned $25 tasting fees. Hmm... more than I remember paying. No big deal, those fees can easily be neutralized by the purchase of a bottle. Tasting fees are always credited towards purchase, right?

Nope. But the fiscal raping was not even the worst thing I heard. "They didn't tell us anything about the wines. We didn't learn anything. They just shoved a sheet of tasting notes in front of us and told us what was on special." Oh, you dirty bastards.

Now, let me go on the record and say that my "facts" are based on anecdotal evidence. I can't say first-hand that any of this occurred. But I don't think these are vindictive folks, and I honestly believe they were met with disappointment. I'm not going to name the wineries in question, but I was able- in order to validate some of the story- visit some completely random websites: non-specified Napa winery #1, non-specified Napa winery #2, and non-specified Napa winery #3, and I confirmed that tasting fees range from $15-25 a pop. Why not just buy a bottle at that price? Rather, my friends paid $30-$50 to taste five or so small pours, then spent another $30 on a bottle. All-in-all, they traveled across the country, rented a car, drove to the proprietor's place of business, got zero education and experience, and paid $60 for a $30 bottle of wine. So much for the value of cutting out the middle-man... and the warm fuzzies towards wine country.

Listen, I understand that these places have a lot of overhead. I know that many tasting rooms thrive on tasting fees. But we're talking some pretty heavy-hitters here. I'm sure Beringer and Mondavi don't keep the lights on with tasting fees. Not when they're producing millions of bottles per year. So why not evangelize? These two spots put Napa on the map. In fact, Robert Mondavi virtually invented the American fine wine industry. The large vintners should be creating wine consumers for life, not scaring them off in the name of a quick buck.

And if what I heard about no education is true, then shame on these wineries. They've perpetuated the mystifying nature of wine. I subscribe to the notion that people warm to what is understood and familiar. If they don't know what they're drinking, then they're probably not going to buy it, whether the taste costs $0.50 or $50.

I understand this scenario is not that case with all Napa wineries. I'm lucky to know some really terrific people in Napa, from winery personnel to PR folks to growers themselves. I can confirm that some are educating the eager masses, sharing their best, and using the tasting rooms to convert skeptics, sell bottles, and make customers for life. But how can their reputations not suffer when the biggest and brightest in the market- the standard-bearers for America's most celebrated wine region- are actively participating in screwing up a huge opportunity and alienating potential wine drinkers?

Hit the mark next time, Napa. It could pay dividends in the long run. Connect with your tasting room customers. Educate them. And please don't rip them off because they simply don't know better. Make out with their thirst for knowledge like you're making out with Mariah Carey on a red carpet at some undisclosed Nickelodeon event. Because that would be awesome. And a little weird. But certainly not disappointing.

Vintage 2007

2011-03-31T22:02:00.016-04:00

On this date, four years ago, I did something big; something of significance. No, I didn't get butt-cheek implants, giving my derrière a more supple fullness that could make a pair of Wal-Mart slacks look like they were purchased from Target.

Unfortunately, this date has nothing to do with me starting to take Rogaine. That ship has sailed. And now, well, let's just say I'm saving a fortune on barber shop expenses.

Even this blog- on March 31, 2007- was nearly two years prior to its genesis. Some say the internet was better back then.

What did happen? Well, I married this young lady:

The wedding- a raucous affair, complete with a grab bag of hijinks, tomfoolery, brouhaha, and no shortage of monkeyshines- preceded a somewhat unpleasant cross-country flight, but an exceedingly incredible vacation... perhaps the tipping point for me.

We went to Napa Valley for our honeymoon. Before this trip, I'd drank plenty of wine. I knew it was something that should be consumed with food. Obviously, there existed a flame of interest in my spirit; otherwise, we would've been sitting on a beach somewhere, turning pink while downing umbrella drinks.

But wine country- the natural beauty and the endless vines- it sparked something: an "itch", so often described by those who visit. And of course, there was the product itself. Never had I realized that wines could be so good. I'd been missing out, and akin to the vows taken just a couple days earlier, a new chapter in my life had begun.

The wine had become my muse. But a secondary one, as not even the finest glass of juice could come close to the tireless support, encouragement, and inspiration my wife has provided. Writing a wine blog- relentlessly, whether folks read or not- requires a certain strength from the other half. There are the late nights writing. The occasional "over tasting", resulting in both laziness and snoring. Not to mention the expense. This is, more than anything else, a labor of love.

So I raise a glass of 2007 Duckhorn Merlot to my lovely Heather. This bottle not only bears the vintage of our union, but its producer was also the first place we visited in Napa. So similar to what rests in my glass, the past four years have been unique, complex, occasionally sour, even more rarely bitter, yet- far more often- totally satisfying, and utterly intoxicating. Whether I'm talking glasses of wine or years of marriage, here's to four more...

...

Okay, that "here's to four more" was a joke. I thought this one was getting a little mushy.

Cheers, babe!

Pay it Forward

2011-03-27T23:13:00.000-04:00

Humble appreciation is a tricky thing. It can cause even the most secure bloke to question his worthiness. Gratitude- in the mind of one who has benefitted handsomely from the generosity of others- is often not enough. A creeping desire to return the favor causes neurosis... at least when you're neurotic like me.

This week has undoubtedly marked one of the most remarkable in my career. I say "career" not to insinuate that this blog is any sort of bell cow, but I felt it most appropriate to not even bring the birth of my daughter, the marriage to my wife, or the day that Quantum Leap came out on DVD into the mix. So, from a food and wine perspective, the past week has been phenomenal.

Folks opened their cellars and let me take a drink, asking nothing in return. I enjoyed magnums of Grand Cru White Burgundy (that will make your toes curl and kick the "anything but Chardonnay" crowd in the groin), Riesling-based Eiswein that outdated me by 8 years, and Red Burgundy double that spread. There was aged Hermitage and Châteauneuf-du-Pape and some of the finest, hardest-to-find wines from California. They even shared wines they made themselves... microscopic-production stuff tasting of their own foot-treading and an honest desire to create something great. Something to share with friends.

In 4 days, I tasted through a lineup many will never experience. But I don't say any of this to brag. I'm simply pointing to the fact that I can't bring game like this to the table yet. I've only been buying wine- really buying wine- for a few years. Even my oldest, best stuff is too young. Yet the real rub lies in the fact that these venerable bottlings go for two, three, four hundred bucks a pop. This guy's got to buy socks without holes in them first.

So, I'm stuck with the aforementioned humble appreciation, and a sneaking suspicion that those who offered up their best could receive no better payback than seeing others enjoy. Be this the case, the only courses of action left are to be thankful and to pay it forward.

This week have been an epiphany of sorts, and I can't wait to pop some dusty corks for my friends and family. That is, as soon as they get some dust on them.

Dream within a dream.

2011-03-23T07:04:00.005-04:00

It was a beautiful Saturday in Georgia... one of those weekends one can only dream about at the twilight of winter's long freeze.

Carnivorefest is an event conceived by some friends several years ago to bring together meat and drink. It has become a celebration of transition; an ushering-in of warmer weather; and, an homage to all things bad for your cardiovascular system. No vegetables. No starches. It's as if Dr. Atkins himself were presiding.

Okay, so there were a few poblano peppers present. But they were stuffed with sausage. We're getting older and need the antioxidants.

All-in-all, the 2011 Carnivorefest was a magical event (granted, one my body can't handle as well as years pass). On one dreamy Saturday, a subsequent vision of gastronomic proportions manifested. Some might say it was a "dream within a dream"...